Two Hearts as One
by GotaBingley
Summary: While he is visiting the Hales, Mr. Thornton and Margaret have an unexpected conversation. Will this change their relationship as events in Milton unfold?
1. An Evening Visit

**A/N: **This is my first-ever fanfic (at least the first one i've ever decided to post publicly), so be patient as I inevitably screw up formatting and all that stuff.

This is going to be book-based, but seeing as how I love the movie, I'm sure there will be cross-over from that, either in conversation or character traits. I will be a tad liberal with the timeline, because Elizabeth Gaskell had a tendency to write events as though they were happening really quickly from one day to the next (even though months would actually pass), so I'm just going to go with the assumption that John and Margaret were in company with each other more often than she actually wrote. But for the most part, I'll try to be faithful to events in the book. There will also be changes in point-of-view, but I'm going to hope it's not too confusing and jarring, and I'll try to be consistent. Within the timeline, this will start kind of around the chapters "What is a Strike?" and "Likes and Dislikes". But again, being liberal with the timeline, so don't try too hard to match my conversations with anything you might find in the book. (p.s. the play mentioned is not real.)

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Knocking at the door, Mr. Thornton was all too aware of the noises coming from within the house. Occasionally Margaret would be the one to come to the door when Dixon was otherwise occupied, and he had learned quickly the difference between Margaret's light, quick step, and the deliberate tread of the faithful servant. That he was able to decipher these steps amid the surrounding noise of the neighborhood, he tried not to give too much thought to. He would not admit to a greater awareness of the environment that housed Miss Hale; he merely interpreted it as a slight uneasiness at being faced with the formidable Dixon, which he could not be blamed for.

This evening he was greeted by Dixon (though he had recognized her step before the door opened; he subsequently had to shake off a feeling of disappointment that was bewildering to him) and shown quickly into the drawing room. Normally he expected to be in company with the mother and daughter, as well, but on entering, he saw only Mr. Hale rising to greet him with his usual good humor.

"What is that you have there, John?" Mr. Hale inquired of the small book tucked into his elbow. "Something new for us to discuss, perhaps? You tire of Plato so soon?"

Mr. Thornton smiled at the light barb. "No, indeed. It is, in fact, not intended for you at all, I'm afraid. It is a play my sister has insisted would capture the attention of Miss Hale, and I am my sister's messenger."

"I see. Do you know anything of it?"  
"Not at all, although I will admit that a recommendation of Fanny's does not inspire me with much confidence in its quality. I cannot guarantee that Miss Hale will enjoy it. But of course I will leave that to her to decide."

Margaret, hearing her name spoken as she descended the stairs, made her way into the drawing room to hear Mr. Thornton's doubt of her reception, but of what, she was too late to the conversation to know. "What must I decide, Mr. Thornton?"

Mr. Thornton turned quickly toward her, slightly startled. The sight of her did not do much to calm him from the surprise of her unexpected entry. No matter what a displeasing personality she possessed toward him, he could never deny her regal beauty. The mere simplicity of her brown dress accentuated her fine features as the fire danced across her cheeks. Her usual haughty demeanor was dampened by an open curiosity, and he found he liked the change too much for his own good.

"My sister has asked me to bring you this," he thrust the book toward her rather awkwardly. As she took it, he explained further. "She understands that it is a favorite in London currently and was sure you would enjoy it."

Margaret glanced at the title on the cover and found it hard to stifle a chuckle. Her smile did not escape his look, but he was afraid of appearing too interested and refused to inquire after her laugh. However, he was soon grateful for her father's open curiosity about the book.

"Oh, I cannot say whether it is currently a favorite in London, but it did enjoy quite the vogue a year and a half ago. Edith dragged me to it three times, Father. Do you remember me telling you of a ridiculous, sentimental affair of a play called _Two Hearts as One_? Well, here it is for our pleasure." She stepped toward her father, clearly amused and inviting all in the room to share in the humor.

"Oh, that does have a familiar sound. But Edith enjoyed it, assuredly?"

"_Most_ assuredly. She was convinced that the author had seen into her heart as regards Captain Lennox and would not be dissuaded from such a notion."

Mr. Thornton now felt it safe to speak his turn. "I am sorry, Miss Hale, to be the bearer of the ridiculous to you. It was innocently done on my part. If you wish, I can take the script back to Fanny and inform her of your familiarity with the play."

"Oh, no, it was very kind of her to think of me, and I would enjoy a chance to look through it. I speak of the play as being ridiculous in general, but I do recall two or three speeches I liked very well. I would like to find them. Really, it was kind of Miss Thornton to send it on to me."

As she spoke, she sat in a nearby chair, plainly ready to enjoy herself. Mr. Thornton was impressed by the purity of heart she ascribed to Fanny's intentions. Yes, Margaret would lend a book to a near acquaintance to be kind, so for her to think that Fanny had different motives was unlikely. He, however, knowing his sister, attributed something else – a desire to appear superior and cultivated to a girl who appeared haughty and unimpressed by her society. Clearly Margaret's previous familiarity with the play undermined Fanny's appearance of superior connections, but her opinion of it entirely destroyed Fanny's hope to show a superiority of mind and taste.

As he pondered the difference between the two young women, he took care not to choose a seat too near Miss Hale. Not only would she find it uncouth, but he was afraid that sitting too near to her would distract him, and he had no desire to pay her more attention than was needful. Her manner toward him may have marginally improved over time as he visited the family, but he was mortified to think that he could appear to favor her company or court her good opinion. As it was, he doubted she could entertain any regard for him, so he must pay her no heed, no matter the graceful incline of her head or the sparkle the firelight captured in her eye as she opened the book.

He wrenched his gaze to Mr. Hale, ready to begin a discussion, but Mr. Hale seemed intent on speaking to his daughter. He must maintain politeness, so he eagerly looked back at her as Mr. Hale inquired of his wife's whereabouts. Strange that Mr. Thornton had not registered the absence of the mother since Margaret's entrance.

"She was feeling rather low tonight, Father; some headache, I imagine," Margaret responded a trifle stiffly. "I feared she would only be wearied by company, so I encouraged her to remain abed."

"Dixon will see to her comfort, I have no doubt," Mr. Hale replied with a smile that seemed to Mr. Thornton incongruous with his daughter's sudden gravity.

"Yes, though I should also return to check on her soon."

She dropped her head as Mr. Hale absently said to himself, "Good, good," and Mr. Thornton quickly recalled when he had brought her Dr. Donaldson's address. From her own attendance on her mother and his knowledge of the case from the good doctor, he could see that Mrs. Hale was far from well. However, it was also clear that Margaret concealed the severity of the case from her father. Why she would do such a thing was incomprehensible to him, but no doubt she knew her father and what was best for her family. He did not like that she took the burden on herself alone, however.

He was roused from these thoughts by Mr. Hale's saying, "In the meantime, what say you to some refreshment, eh, John?"

"Yes, that would be . . ." He stumbled over the right word to say, no doubt affected by the warmth of the fire. Nice? Agreeable? Lovely? "Well," he ended lamely. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, hating his tongue, sure that she was laughing at him. Why must he prove to her his ignorance and brutishness?

Nothing was said, however, to his blundering response, and Margaret set aside the play and left the room to retrieve the tea tray.

Her absence made it easier for him to return to his intended topic, and by the time she returned, he and Mr. Hale were engaged in talk over the Iliad and pagan gods. As she poured out their tea, he wondered that she rarely took part in the discussions they had. He assumed she was familiar with such works as he was beginning to reacquaint himself with; why should she not join in rather than retreat to her needlework? But he would not ask her; oh, no. That would appear as though he were interested in her, her thoughts and opinions. He must not give an impression of preference to her, because of course such an appearance would be false.

She returned to the play after handing them their tea (he had trained himself to not be fascinated by the movement of her bracelet or jealous of the smile she gave her father . . . no, not jealous), and said nothing. He stole glances at her every time he picked up his cup, but he was careful not to do so too often. He did not want to arouse the suspicion of the father. He wondered if she enjoyed the play; her look of concentration did not give anything away.

They were all startled by a tap at the door below. As Mr. Hale wondered who could be calling, Margaret again rose so as to answer the summons. He was relieved to see Dixon bustle past, though, before Margaret could leave the room. They were all silent as they heard the door open and a low murmur of voices. Dixon's plodding steps were again heard on the stairs and she appeared in the doorway.

"Excuse me, Master, but the Smithers boy is at the door. He says it's an urgent family matter and he wanted you to come."

Mr. Hale's mouth formed an "oh" that gave Mr. Thornton the impression that the elderly gentleman was already aware of the family matter, but was merely surprised at such timing. "Yes, of course, I will come."

Mr. Thornton regretfully began to stand, as well, saying, "If you are to leave, perhaps I should –"

"Oh, no, John," Mr. Hale cut him off. "I know of what young Edward is troubled by and they live only a few doors down. I will not be gone long, I am sure. I will be back with plenty of time for us to discourse on Achilles. Please stay. Margaret, I'm sure you will see to Mr. Thornton's comfort."

"Of course, Father." If she was at all disconcerted by her father's request, she did not show it. Her composure remaining, she motioned for him to retake his seat as Mr. Hale disappeared down the stairs.

Any thoughts that he might be left alone with her were soon dispelled, as Dixon clearly had no intention of leaving her post at the door. With her formidable set of the mouth and guard-like stance, Mr. Thornton felt himself repressed. Circumstance dictated they should converse, but he did not feel comfortable beginning to speak in front of the stern servant whose disapproval emanated through the room. Fortunately, Margaret seemed mistress enough of herself and was accustomed to Dixon's presence.

"Are you enjoying Homer, Mr. Thornton? Did you not begin your lessons with his works? I rather thought that you had moved on to other study." Her eyes strayed to Dixon, clearly suppressing a smile. She could see it! She knew he was afraid of that imposing woman and was enjoying his discomfort! With this realization, he resolved to stop squirming and replied with as easy a tone as he could muster, "Yes, very much. It has been some time since I have studied it, and to do so once more gives me pleasure. It is true we began with Homer, but I wanted to discuss a few more thoughts this evening."

"So you were already familiar with the Iliad?"

"More so than the Odyssey. My former teacher preferred it and began with it. We were still studying Homer when my –" He stopped abruptly. He did not like to mention his father or his previous hardships, especially among those who had already heard his history. She was gracious enough to understand his sudden silence and did not press him to continue in the same vein.

"I confess I much prefer the Classic poetry and stories than I do philosophy, although I am sure you can deduce my father's preference, having seen his enthusiasm for Plato in your lessons."

"We are still studying philosophy together, but have moved on to Aristotle, although he will insist on returning to _The Republic_ every so often. This evening being a mere visit, I may choose a different topic. I do enjoy the study, but there is a limit even to how much Plato I can absorb."

She granted him a small smile at this remark. "Does all your conversation with my father revolve around dead languages and people?"

He was surprised at such a question. But perhaps it was not surprising if she did not listen closely to their conversation. If she was not asked to participate, she most likely felt little need to pay much attention to the discussions held in this very room. Perhaps he should have been drawing her out, after all.

"No, indeed, Miss Hale. I will confess that it makes up a large part of what we speak of, but Mr. Hale and I also talk about current events. No doubt you knew of the Great Exhibition in London."

"Yes, indeed. I was there, in fact. I was living in London with my aunt at the time." Her interest seemed piqued at the mention of the Exhibition.

"I find little motivation to leave Milton, but were something like that to happen again, I might be persuaded for just such an event. To see in person what goods, what artifacts, what anything really, is part of the world that surrounds us, that is –" The sound of a bell interrupted him. They turned to the sound and saw Dixon look toward the stairs, herself now uneasy. Had he forgotten so quickly that she had been standing there?

"That will be the mistress calling, Miss," Dixon turned to Margaret. "I should go and see to her." She looked askance now at Mr. Thornton, who understood her unease. To leave her mistress unattended or to leave the young miss alone with the great brute of a northern tradesman? The gallant gesture would be for him to now take his leave, he knew, but here was opportunity to be alone with Margaret, something that had not occurred since first meeting her. But why should he wish to be alone with her unchaperoned? He forced that question out of his mind, only knowing that he was eager for Dixon to settle her internal conflict by answering the summons.

Margaret also knew of Dixon's uneasiness, but she wanted to be sure her mother was looked after, and she was not afraid of being alone with Mr. Thornton. She would not do him the discourtesy of asking him to leave when her father, who would certainly return soon, so looked forward to his coming. And she was herself now curious where his thoughts were taking his conversation; she found she wanted to find out something more of this stern man.

"Yes, of course, Dixon. Please do. And if it's me she requires, please tell me." Dixon still hesitated as the bell rang a second time. "I'm sure my father will return shortly," she spoke quieter, hoping to assure Dixon she was in no danger. As Dixon threw another look his way, Mr. Thornton attempted to keep his face impassive, not wanting to betray his pleasure at her departure. That parting silence of hers was an effective warning, though against what he was unsure.


	2. Surprising Conversation

**A/N:** Just a reminder that the play mentioned is not real; I was totally making it up as I went. I will readily admit that it was just a contrivance to get our beloved characters to actually talk. It won't come into play after this chapter. Thanks for following and your reviews!

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Once assured of Dixon's entry into her mother's chamber, Margaret turned her attention to Mr. Thornton once more. Since that first meeting, she had never spoken to him alone, and was curious about how well they could converse together without the mediation of her father. He was silent again, and she was sure that he felt cowed by Dixon's unnerving stare. She could not help being amused by his reaction to Dixon, especially as he seemed such an intimidating force himself. But her amusement gave way to pity, as he was her father's friend and should not be uncomfortable, so she took charge and tried to distract him from Dixon's presence. She herself had been pleasantly surprised at the result before the interruption of her mother's bell and hoped they could continue together in a civil and friendly manner until her father returned.

"So you are interested in the current world, are you, Mr. Thornton?" she began, her tone much more teasing than she intended. But it seemed to work to relax his tense frame.

"Is that so surprising, Miss Hale?" She had never spoken in such an arch, friendly way to him. Could he keep that tone himself? It was not natural to him, but he immediately wished to please her. Why, oh, why did he wish to please her?

"Well, perhaps not. You do need to be aware of what is available to you for your business, after all."

"This is true. But I suppose you do not refer to modern advances in machinery and trade when you speak of the current world, do you?" He pointed to the play that rested on the table. "No doubt you speak more of arts, literature, music, or perhaps the theater?"

Taking the book into her hands, she smiled. "Well, if I speak of the theater, I do not usually think of _Two Hearts as One_. It is not something that is of much substance, I'm afraid."

"And yet you seemed ready to find some humor in reacquainting yourself with it," he observed with a slight smile.

She blushed. "Well, sometimes one may still indulge in the ridiculous and find some entertainment. And I did say earlier that there were some speeches I enjoyed."

"True. Did you find any?" He was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. She had seen such an attitude with him before as he spoke with her father, but she had never supposed he should show such a frank interest in carrying on a conversation with her, his attention fully focused on her in a friendly and not at all combative way.

"Well, one." She thumbed through the book until she found the page she wanted. "Do you want me to read it to you?" She felt rather shy about this request. It was such a frivolous work, and whatever else he may be, he was not a frivolous man. She was suddenly afraid of appearing young and sentimental, or that she approved of such appearances.

But he responded in an enthusiastic affirmative and seemed determined and interested. She could not help adding a caveat before reading from the passage. "Please remember that the play _is_ called _Two Hearts as One_ . . . meaning it is a romance. It may sound silly to you."

"I would not expect anything but a romance from Fanny. I promise you I will not tell you if I find it silly," he assured her easily. "I cannot say I will not tell Fanny if I find it so."

Although gratified by his assurances, she still felt slightly hesitant, but she opened the book wider and drew it closer. "All right. The man, Ferdinand, has been called away and before he goes he confesses his love for Amelia, whom he has only ever fought with. He takes her completely by surprise." A recollection caused her to blush slightly before she continued. "It does not begin well," she said in apology.

Mr. Thornton signaled she should begin, curious at her seeming reticence. She had already expressed her opinion of the play; he would not think the less of her for enjoying a single passage.

"'You cannot understand me, can you? How can that be? Have I not teased you, quizzed you, set your will at naught? Does this not give you suspicion? I have hardly said a kind word to you, and you do not comprehend that I love you. For I do. I did not know it myself. But still I do. My silence, my words, my actions, they all belie me, but I must have done this because I did not know my feelings.'" She looked up. "This is where it improves." Back down. "'Each day I see you, you become more a part of me. Each day I do not see you, I sense you. You are in my thoughts, my prayers, my hopes, and my fears. I think what you may be doing, what you may be saying, how you appear. I pray for your safety, your happiness, your joy. I hope for your love, your smile, your lips. I fear your hate, your frown, your tears. Is this not love? Is this not what it is, to dream of your hand in mine and to be afraid to ask for it? Your beauty, your charm, your wit, they consume me until I am no longer at peace and only by your willing love can I regain that peace. I pledge you that peace. I pledge my heart, my word, my honor, to you. Only you may hold them safe. Only you . . .'"

Margaret drifted off and stopped. The speech had ended and she felt slightly foolish for reading such words to Mr. Thornton. She was afraid to look up for fear that he would simply laugh. She hated appearing foolish before anyone. But he said nothing and she could not keep her gaze down indefinitely. She looked up. His attitude in the chair had not changed, but he no longer looked at her. He seemed to be staring into the fire, his expression somber and thoughtful. She still felt afraid to say anything, but at least he had not mocked her.

At length, he turned back to face her and his expression did not change as he considered her. "Well," he simply said. Perhaps he did not know what else to say.

She immediately rushed to apology. "I told you it was foolish, I warned you –"

"No, Miss Hale, do not distress yourself. I do not find it foolish. I would not express myself thus, but the sentiments avowed . . . I understand them." His gaze seemed to focus as he looked at her and she suddenly felt hot.

"Well, as I said, it does not begin well."

"Yes, a little strange."

"I'm glad you agree." He cocked his head in curiosity. Hurriedly, she went on. "I mean to say, I find it ridiculous to simply accost a woman with a declaration of love without her having any idea of its coming."

"It seems to me that he himself was unaware of his feelings."

"I do not accept that. It is ludicrous to think a man may be so ignorant of himself that he cannot tell whether he likes a woman, admires her, cares for her. Men are not surely so foolish."

He sat up straighter. "It is possible that admiration for a woman may be manifested or disguised by another feeling. He may be trying to deny himself, convince himself he does not care for her."

"But in so doing, does that not prove that he has been aware of his attraction to her, if he is actively trying to fight it?"

Her words seemed to sting him and he was silent once more. His face was thoughtful again as he pondered what she said and nodded to himself. "You are right. A man may be stupid, but he does still know his own thoughts, his own feelings. No matter if he approves of those feelings, he does still know when a woman affects him, when he thinks of her and why he does." His voice had quieted as he spoke and his tone was gentle. Margaret was struck with the thought that he possibly had never been in love himself, for these thoughts he expressed seemed new and untried. He looked up at her once more. "When it is something you have never experienced, it may take some time to recognize the feeling for what it is. Although," he smiled ruefully, "a man may feel idiotic for taking so long to put the correct term to it, be it admiration, attraction, or love. It may simply be the easier way to say he was completely unaware of the feeling being there at all. It would be a lie, and cowardly at that, but it may be that is how he keeps a semblance of pride."

She was astounded that he had all but admitted he had never experienced such a feeling - why would he admit such a thing to her? -, but was quickly drawn to his last statement. "Does pride have any place in love?"

Again, he seemed startled by what she said. "You would hope that the woman you love may be proud of you, pleased with the man you are, but as far as your pride in yourself . . ." He shook his head. "I do not know. Perhaps not. But a man must have some pride in himself. He must conduct his life in a way that he may hold his head up high and know that he is a true man."

"But is that the same kind of pride? Is that the pride that costs him his honesty to the lady he loves? You seemed to speak of that semblance of pride as merely a way to lie to the lady, to appear to be something you are not. To look better than you are."

"What man does not want the woman he loves to think he is better than he is?"

"A woman in love may know the man she loves, his faults and all, and still have a better opinion of him than anyone else, and may hope for the man to one day become the better man you would have him only pretend to be."

He seemed about to reply, but stopped himself, pulling himself to sit up straighter as he looked off in the distance. He finally smiled and said, "I concede. You have won."

"Mr. Thornton, I did not speak to win."

"But you are right. There is good pride and there is bad pride. Good pride keeps us doing well and right; it motivates us to better ourselves. Bad pride is merely an attempt to disguise who we are, an excuse to stop us from bettering ourselves because we have come up with a ruse to treat people as though we are better than they. And you are right that there is no room for that kind of pride in love. In true, real, ardent love."

He did not take his gaze from her as he spoke and she found she could not look away from him. What a strange conversation she was having with him! She had never expected to speak on matters of the heart with Mr. Thornton, master and magistrate. As the silence between them drew on, the stray thought of her father wandered into her mind and she finally looked away from Mr. Thornton, preparing to direct the conversation into safer waters.

"You used the word 'accost,'" he said suddenly.

"Pardon?" she asked, confused.

"You not only disapprove of a man being unaware of his feelings, but you also disapprove of him declaring himself." His gaze had lessened in intensity, but was still focused on her.

She scrambled to remember what he was referring to for a moment or two before recalling. "It isn't the declaration I disapprove of; it's that he gives her no sign of what to expect before asking for her love in return."

"But how should she know he has an interest in her if he does not say so?"

"He is not merely telling her of his interest or even his admiration; he is speaking of love. He _is_ proposing to her, and he is expecting that she, completely ignorant of his interest until five minutes before, is going to accept him. How could she be expected to love him in that instant? How can he expect anything but a denial?"

She knew her own experience with an unprecedented proposal was affecting what she said, but it only served to prove her assertion. She had no idea of Henry ever doing more than like her, and yet he had expected her to accept him in that fumbling, unlooked-for proposal. She continued without letting Mr. Thornton speak, unaware if he even wanted to.

"He has not given her any indication that he thinks of her, and that is wrong of him, to take her unawares and not at all disposed to accept him. It is not kind to either party to behave in such a way. He must show her other, smaller attentions first and see if they are acceptable. If she allows them, continue, and if she does not, he must stop. Then she has avoided the proposal of a man she could not even like, and he has avoided being rejected in the worst possible way. And at least being shown some attention, the lady will not be taken by surprise by the application for her hand, even by someone she is of a mind to accept."

She had closed the book for some time, but she had been unconsciously looking at it as she spoke, rapidly recalling her objections to Henry's advances. She wasn't sure of everything she had said, but she once again thought the subject closed until Mr. Thornton spoke.

"And what attentions does a man give a woman? So she is not taken unawares?" She looked at him, surprised by such a forward question, but his expression was innocent and curious, and she assumed he asked for hypothetical purposes.

"Taking her arm when they meet, for instance," she rattled off the first idea that came into her mind, but then she had to reflect a little more. What could a man do to please her, to show her attentions she would accept and recognize? "Speak to her, ask for her opinions and thoughts in company, compliment her talents, say something pleasing about her looks." She blushed at the vanity she was betraying. "Women do like to think they are nice to look at." She paused, unsure if there was anything else. "I suppose finding ways to see her, letting her know in some way he is there to be in her company . . ." She trailed off once more as she looked at him, suddenly embarrassed at all she said. It was rather forward of her to say such things, but after all, she had spoken in general terms, and his easy manner hinted that all was well and she was in no danger of being misunderstood by him as she had been by Henry.

"Well, I hope that all men may benefit from your counsel, Miss Hale."

She reached out a hand in supplication. "Please, Mr. Thornton, please do not tell anybody . . . please do not tell my father of what we have been talking. He would . . . it would be difficult to explain."

He cut her off by holding up a hand of his own. "You may depend on my confidence, Miss Hale. This will remain a private conversation. I give you my word."

Thanking him, she laid the book aside to find her tea had gone cold. She offered him another cup and was sitting back down when they heard the front door open and her father entered the room. She was not fully able to hide her look of relief from Mr. Thornton that their unexpected conversation had not been interrupted and he allowed himself a smile before receiving the apologies of Mr. Hale, who had been detained longer than anticipated with the Smithers'. He hoped his half-hour's absence had not been too inconvenient, and the rest of the evening was spent in conversation of ancient and mythical Greece.


	3. Altering Opinions

Normally John made quick time of his walk from Crampton back to his home, but tonight his pace slowed as he was lost in thought. Never had his conversation with Miss Hale taken such a turn. She usually appeared annoyed or vexed when they engaged in conversation, not to mention this was possibly the first time a discussion between the two had not ended in argument. Previously it had vacillated between her open love and preference for the South and questioning his methods as a master, challenging his authority and principles. But tonight! Tonight had been a revelation.

He was truly in his sister's debt, a condition he had never before thought he would be in. Their mode of conversation had perhaps already taken on a more friendly tone than usual, but it was her reading of the passage that had changed everything for him. As she read the awkward, flowery words, he felt his heart thud at the realization that he could understand them, even feel them himself. The idea that a woman could consume his mind and heart had always seemed impossible; he had assumed his heart was cold. But then Margaret.

He had acknowledged to himself her beauty and a grudging admiration of her ideals, however frustrated he was at her deliberate misunderstanding of him. But any thoughts of her beyond that, he had tried to force away from himself. And that should have been his first clue that he was affected by her. That he felt any need to train himself not to think of her, to avoid her was proof enough that he might care for her. Previously, he did not ever have to tell himself to cast women he met away from his mind; they simply were not present. But she had stayed in his mind, in his skin, and as she read this evening he realized openly that he did not _want_ to cast her away. She had taken hold of him, and he now suffered it gladly. No woman had ever captivated him as she did, and now there was no denying the ever-rising burn in his breast as he thought of her. He had unconsciously fought against her influence and power long enough. Now he would embrace it and glory in such a feeling, new and all-encompassing.

The question now was how to proceed. It had been difficult for him to remain composed as they spoke, as he desired to know how to gain her favor. He did not want to give himself away and spring upon her his interest even as she spoke against such actions. He told himself to be careful in his leading questions, but was afraid of overstepping the mark even as he uttered the words.

The honest truth was that he viewed himself as a rough, uncouth man, especially when in her presence, and he had no way of knowing how to please any woman, much less Margaret. He did not know where to begin, so his question of how a man may show attention was out of sheer ignorance and desperation. It was a strange sensation, to feel he knew nothing about a subject. He was used to being in command, to being consulted for his knowledge and experience. But with Margaret, he felt as a boy of fifteen, unsure and eager.

He had been surprised and pleased at her willingness to answer his questions. He hoped that she named such actions as would be pleasing to her, not just to women in general. He would remember her words and cherish them, put them into practice. But once he did, how would she receive his regard? Would she be offended and push him away? Would she feel pity for the awkward way he was sure to go about beginning? Would she even understand that he was applying her words to his behavior around her, that he was showing her his admiration? He was anxious as he pondered the various and possible outcomes of him taking such steps. He was nervous, he was sure, he was wild to be near her, he was afraid of making himself a fool. But he was most enticed by the possibility that she would return his affection.

He stopped walking at this thought and nearly turned back, yearning to know if he had any chance, any hope. But no, she could not feel strongly about him now, even if she felt anything at all. He would need to work at it; he would need to court her in some manner. Her own words turned his feet toward home, crushing the sudden desire to be imprudent and impudent by throwing himself at her feet. She would most certainly deny him now; he was certain she would deny him later, as well, but he must try.

The rest of his journey home was spent in this feverish feeling of joy and agony. Joy to be thinking of her, to thrill in her being, and agony to think of how low a fellow he was to aspire to her. Distracted by these overwhelming feelings and thoughts, he barely gave his mother any notice on his entering the house. He lay awake half the night wrestling within himself of how to go forward.

* * *

After Mr. Thornton left, Margaret hastened to her mother's chamber. Dixon had never returned to the drawing room, prompting some worry on Margaret's part. She was eager to spend time with her mother, fearing her role had been usurped once more by the ever-faithful Dixon. Even if her mother's clinging to her was only brought on by her increasing weakness, Margaret would not cast it aside; she valued her mother's fondness too greatly to stay away.

Dixon sat by her mother's bed, petting Mrs. Hale's hand in a soothing manner. It was clear that Mrs. Hale slept fretfully, gaining no real rest from the experience. Though the fire was low, sweat gleamed on her brow, and she was prone to twitch occasionally. Margaret was jealous of Dixon's ability to calm her mother even when asleep. Stepping forward, she spoke softly. "Dixon, you must rest yourself. I can stay with Mama."

Dixon, not having perceived Margaret's entrance, jumped in her seat, a movement which caused some alarm, for it affected Mrs. Hale and she tossed and turned for another minute or so before Dixon's ministrations calmed her once more. This being done, Dixon silently gave Margaret a stern glare which was unmistakable in its meaning: Margaret was ill-equipped to take proper care of her mother, as this small instance proved. But Margaret would not be gainsaid.

"Dixon, please," she whispered more carefully, drawing closer and putting a hand on her shoulder. "You have stayed with her so long and must be so worn out. Truly," she said in response to the emphatic shake of the head, "you should let me share the load. I hate feeling of so little use to her. Let me stay with her."

Dixon was loth to yield to a suggestion to abandon her mistress, but she knew Margaret's temper and obstinacy. She nodded and stood, allowing Margaret to take her place, swiftly taking her mother's hand. "Yes," she thought to herself, "when the miss gets that fire in her, she is so like dear master Frederick." Resolving not to stay away long, she made her way out of the chamber and past the drawing room where lingered the master, still unaware or unaccepting of how ill his wife really was.

Being left alone with her mother, Margaret's thoughts wandered back to Mr. Thornton and the strange conversation they had shared. It was unaccountable the change in their manner of conversation, to say nothing of the potentially embarrassing and misleading topic.

Margaret was unused to talk of love in any form, so to discuss it with anybody on a level bordering philosophical had previously been unthinkable. She loved her parents and family dearly, but it was not spoken of; rather, they allowed their affection to be manifest in their treatment of one another. Even Edith's conversation and exultations of love while engaged to Captain Lennox had been limited to exclamations that seemed, to Margaret, very childish. "Oh, Margaret, how well I love him!" And yet she and Edith had never spoken of the nature of love and how one is to encourage it.

Even with her limited experience in such matters, Margaret had always taken it for granted that she would one day marry. She was not given over to lengthy fancies or anything of a similar nature; she had a very pragmatic view of the whole institution. Her parents had married; her neighbors had married; one day she would also marry. Yet she had never been terribly romantic, and had never come close to losing her heart over a man. She had supposed she never would, especially after the awkward day of Henry's proposal. No, she could not marry him, but she also could not imagine liking any man better than she liked Henry. Perhaps there may yet be a man who captured her attention more, or who at least made a semblance of courting her, but the idea of being mad over a man would likely never come to pass.

And then there was Mr. Thornton. She had never met a man who irritated her in such a fashion. When in his presence, she found it difficult to rid herself of an itch in her skin or a pressure on her chest. He could be so kind to her mother and so considerate of her father, and yet he could be so cold to others. She could not make out which part was truly the man, and she was constantly torn on whether she wanted to find out or not. He had a way of looking at her in that intense, earnest way that made her feel hot, and she could not shake an uncomfortable feeling that she could not name whatever it was she did think of him. And she did not like being ignorant, especially of herself.

So if men were only going to be friends or irritants, there was no possible way Margaret could consider losing her head over the one she would eventually marry. But as she had said to Mr. Thornton tonight and as she had learned from the experience with Henry, she would at least appreciate being aware of some interest on the gentleman's part before being asked!

And then he had asked her how a man may go about things so as not to surprise the woman he had designs on! What a question! She had taken it for granted that he would surely know such customs; in fact, she had never given Mr. Thornton's knowledge of courting any thought at all. But as he asked, she could see that Mr. Thornton was perhaps just as inexperienced in matters of the heart as she was. So, despite her initial fear of his misreading her words, she had spoken. And he seemed to reward her disclosure by showing he saw no hidden meaning or hint in her suggestions.

What a change this one conversation made. She before had thought him impressive, and she admired how he had built a life for himself and his family. Could it now be that a mere half-hour's discussion had changed her, that she now could like him "personally", as she had once declared to her father that she did not? Surely all her former opinion could not be done away, but a softening on his part as they spoke had done much to soften her view of him. Would this continue, or was it a chance occurrence that would never be repeated? For her father's sake, she told herself, she hoped they would continue friendly with each other. Her father valued Mr. Thornton and his friendship, and she knew he would appreciate her having a better relationship with that man. And after their conversation tonight, she ventured to think that perhaps she would welcome a better relationship with him, as well.


	4. Fathers and Daughters

**A/N:** Really, I'm trying to keep author's notes to a minimum, but here's another one. This is the first chapter that I really start bringing in dialogue from the book and occasionally the movie. I've mixed it around so it's kind of hard to specify which lines are quoted and where, so don't hate me for not making that clear. I also am not going to attempt writing in Bessy and Nicholas's accents; I would utterly fail. And Bessy's characterization is not going to be influenced by the movie as much as I originally thought, but I am probably going to avoid how much she talks about death. As it is, she's not going to be featured too much in the story, anyway. (which i am kind of sad about because i love their friendship, especially in the movie. but let's face it, it's margaret and john i'm trying to move toward smooching, so naturally i'd write more about them.)

Again, thank you for your reviews. My husband also thanks you for the incredible boost in my self-esteem. :)

* * *

Margaret was shaken awake early before dawn by Dixon. She had not meant to fall asleep while attending to her mother, but it seemed that exhaustion had insisted on claiming her. She could not remember when she had given way to the pull of slumber, but she was sure it had come far more quickly than she dared to admit to Dixon.

For Dixon's part, she was ashamed she had allowed herself to sleep so long, and was using her energized vigor to severely scold herself for leaving the mistress alone. As soon as possible, she made her way into Mrs. Hale's room to find Margaret slumped in the chair, her head resting on the covers of her mother's bed. It was a wonder her weight had not awoken the mistress, Dixon thought to herself as she gently took hold of Margaret's shoulder.

When Margaret lifted her head, she heard Dixon speak in a low voice. "Now, Miss, you've had your time with the missus, now let me attend to my duties and you go about your business."

The words were perhaps a little harsh, but Margaret was too tired and sore to argue with Dixon at the moment, so she blearily made her way to her own room and bed, hoping to relieve some of the ache in her back by lying down upon her own mattress. Though still fully dressed, it was not long before Margaret had fallen back asleep.

She next awoke to a room full of light. Her aches had lessened, but she now felt stiff thanks to her state of dress. She eased her way out of her gown and stays, stretching and yawning, before availing herself of the water basin nearby. After washing her face and arms, she found she was reluctant to immediately put on another dress, but duty must come. With Dixon spending so much time with her mother, she needed to keep her father company. In addition she hoped to visit Bessy, and there was no telling how late the hour was.

Once dressed, she found her father once more in the drawing room, preparing for a lesson. After she kissed his cheek in greeting, he turned to her more fully. "Did you stay all night with your mother, Margaret? I am sure you needn't have taken the trouble. This illness will pass and besides, she does have Dixon to look after her."

"I did not want to go so long without seeing her, Father, and Dixon has been so diligent; I thought she deserved some rest."

"No doubt, no doubt. But it does seem to be a great deal of fuss. Your mother will be back with us soon."

Margaret did not have the courage to contradict her father's assertion, knowing that confirmation of the severity of her mother's condition would come to him only too soon.

"What did you and Mr. Thornton find to talk about in my absence? I do feel badly for leaving you alone with him, but Edward had need of my help. He had spoken to me about his family's situation with his sister's ill health and thought I might do some good. I was surprised to be called on last night, but as you may remember, need knows no time."

Unsure of whether Mr. Hale required an answer, Margaret wondered to herself briefly at her father's willingness to take upon worries of other families rather than his own. She was not left to wonder very long, though, as he quickly drew back to his original question. "But what did you and John speak of?"

She fought the instinct to blush as she replied, "Oh, just an amusing passage from the play Miss Thornton sent me. He was curious about any merits I found in it." She hoped she would not need to give more specific details.

"Ah, no doubt he found some humor in it, as well. I was pleased to find the house still standing after leaving you alone. I never know in what manner you two will speak to each other."

"I think you would be surprised at how well we got on last night," she said with a smile.

"Indeed. I am happy to hear it. Mr. Thornton is a good man, Margaret, and a sincere friend. I hope you may one day come to realize it. He is not all brick and cotton – he does, in fact, seem to be made of flesh and blood. You may even like him in time if you would recognize that."

"I did catch a glimpse of that last night, Father. If we continue in such a way, I do think I will be able to see him as something other than an admirable automaton."

* * *

After visiting with her father and donning her coat and hat, Margaret walked over to Frances Street in hopes that Bessy would be feeling well enough to receive a visitor. Bessy had made it clear Margaret was welcome no matter her condition, but Margaret did not wish to raise Nicholas's ire on account of his daughter being disturbed. She had the idea that he approved of her, but she was still wary of his gruff manner. When she entered the humble house, she discovered that he was at home, as well, but both he and Bessy were pleased to see her.

Despite Bessy's warm greeting, she could not hide a feeble attitude in the way she sat, prompting Margaret to inquire more warmly about her health.

"Don't you mind me, Margaret, I'm all right enough," she began, but Nicholas soon interjected.

"She's a bit weary of the strike, as few days old as it is; she doesn't like it."

"And why should I? This is the third strike I've seen."

Margaret replied, "So the strike has begun, then? I had heard rumors of it but did not know it would come so soon."

"Aye, we at Hamper's have turned out. Others are finishing the work week, but they'll soon join us. See if the masters don't come and beg us to come back at our own price." He champed down on his pipe, well pleased with the efforts being put forth by his own people.

Margaret herself was unsure of the justness of such an action as a strike, so she was not sure of the extent to which she should approve of Nicholas's actions. She had seen suffering among the poor of Milton, but was this the way to go about correcting the problem? "I admit I'm very ignorant, having not heard of a strike from where I come, but I wonder what would happen if the laborers in the South did as you did."

"What do you mean?" Nicholas seemed suspicious of Margaret's direction.

"What would become of the farms? If the field laborers turned out, the seed would not be sown, nothing gathered and harvested, and nothing to sell. If that were the case, the farmers would have nothing to give the workers the next year."

"Suppose the farmers try giving a fair rate of wage to begin with," he responded, annoyance starting to creep into his tone. Margaret recognized the warning and nearly stopped, but could not quickly think of another course her words could be taken. She continued, hoping that perhaps she could bridge some sort of understanding. She did not enjoy the sense of an impending war that the strike suggested, and would do anything she could to breach the gulf.

"Suppose they could not, even if they wished to. They must have reasons for setting the wages they do. Ask some of your masters. Surely they will give you-"

But this proposal was too much for Nicholas. "Ask the masters!" he exclaimed, his irritation now full-fledged. "You're a foreigner; you know nothing of it. They'd tell us to mind our own business, and they'd mind theirs. Never mind that their business is to keep us clemming and them in a fat profit."

Margaret, about to respond, was caught by Bessy's beseeching eye. Already made uncomfortable by her illness and the surrounding strike, she silently pleaded with Margaret to quell her father's anger. Margaret understood the plea and held up a placating hand. "As I say, I'm sure I am very ignorant of the situation here; I'm sure you do what you think is right." Bessy smiled softly and nodded in appreciation and approval.

Nicholas himself was affected by Margaret's sudden soft words, knowing also Bessy's wish for such argument to cease. He diminished his surly tone and spoke more gently to match Margaret. "I thank you for your confidence, Miss. Don't think I do this only for myself. It's just as much in the cause of others – take Boucher." At the mention of the name, he gestured to Bessy, who acknowledged the name with a nod.

"Boucher? Who is he?" Margaret asked.

Bessy answered, "Our neighbor down the way. He's got a sickly wife and more mouths to feed than he can afford." She paused before hazarding, "He'll struggle greatly living only on strike pay from union."

This innocent comment provoked Nicholas once more. "He'll not starve! He may be a poor good-for-nought, but we've money laid by! We're resolved to stand and fall together, and that includes Boucher. He'll step in line if he knows what's good for him. Let Hamper, Slickson, and Thornton go to the devil!"

"Mr. Thornton?" Margaret reacted before she knew what she was saying. "Mr. Thornton is one of the masters you're fighting against?"

"To be sure, Miss," Nicholas looked at her as though she was daft for doubting that Marlborough Mills would be included in the turn-out.

Bessy chimed in. "He's a man who will not go down without fighting, himself." She glanced over to Margaret as she said, "He can be a hard man."

"How so?" What insights and experiences could they have of this enigma of a man, she wondered.

"You ever see a bulldog?" Nicholas responded. "He's as fierce as a bulldog and will fight just as hard."

Margaret laughed at this image of Mr. Thornton. Ordinarily she might agree with Nicholas's assessment, especially having been on the opposite side of an argument with him several times. But as her mind turned to him, the image that surfaced was his smile from the previous evening as they sat by the fire. That picture would not be banished and she could not reconcile it with the likeness of a bulldog.

"Certainly he's better-looking than a bulldog," she joked, prompting a chuckle from Bessy. Even Nicholas gave a reluctant smirk, seeing that Margaret was still trying to keep the peace.

"Maybe so, but when he gets hold of an idea, he'll not let go; he'll hold fast like a dog. I'll give him this much due, Miss, he's worth fighting with. He's not like Slickson, who'll slip and cheat his way around. No, Thornton's a man of his word. He'd not deliberately deceive any man to get his own way. That's the best I can say for him."

"So he may not be as bad as the rest?" Margaret ventured with a smile.

"Not sure I'd go that far," Nicholas grunted. A semblance of calm having been restored, he left the house to give the young women a chance to visit.

Later, as Margaret walked home, she reflected on what Nicholas had said about Mr. Thornton. Undoubtedly he was a man set in his ways; she had seen that clear enough for herself. She laughed again at the comparison to the bulldog, thinking that perhaps it _was_ a rather apt description.

But she had also been surprised at the credit Nicholas was willing to give Mr. Thornton, however grudgingly it was admitted. She could not contradict him, either, although she had never before given much thought to Mr. Thornton's integrity. As she did, however, she could not find anything wanting in that aspect of his character. She could see in him an honest man who held himself to a high standard in his conduct toward others, no matter their station. And if one of his affirmed adversaries could admit as much, she could very freely admire him for it.


	5. Then Somebody Bends

"Dixon, whatever has Martha been doing?"

Mrs. Hale was feeling well enough this day to be out of bed, but she was in a querulous mood, as Dixon found to her dismay. It seemed that nothing could be done correctly this morning: Dixon fetched her the wrong cap, the tea had not steeped long enough, she was too close to the fire, she was too cold after moving away from it. Nothing was to Mrs. Hale's satisfaction, and Dixon was eager to put her dear mistress in a better temper. She had never felt herself under so much scrutiny and never had Mrs. Hale been so difficult to please.

Margaret rarely saw Dixon so discomfited, and she was a little ashamed at how much she enjoyed it. As long as her mother didn't turn her contrary humor on Margaret, she would enjoy the situation at hand.

"What is the trouble, Mama?"

"Well, I assume Dixon sends that girl to the market for fresh fruit, but I can't abide whatever is on this plate. What is it, Margaret? I can't rightly tell."

Margaret bit her lip in sympathy and amusement over Dixon's plight. The beleaguered woman looked completely bewildered. "I believe they are apples, Mama."

"Well, you would not know it to taste them, that's certain. How could you let such food escape your notice, Dixon?"

Dixon stumbled over an excuse, but it was spoken rather low, and they could not hear it for the mumbling. Such behavior from Dixon was so rare that Margaret's sympathy finally overcame her humor and she interposed in order to shield Dixon from further abuse.

"Mama, perhaps I may go to the market and find something else to tempt you. I'm sure that neither Martha nor Dixon are to blame for what is available. Perhaps there was not much variety."

Her mother's sulky purse of the lips was all the reply she received, but it was not a denial of Margaret's proposal, so Margaret, after a compassionate glance to Dixon, stood up and went to retrieve her coat. Soon Margaret was out among the crowds of the food stalls, a basket on one arm, hoping to find something that would please her mother. To be sure, Mrs. Hale's tastes had always been refined, but before now she had never been fussy about what was offered her. Margaret supposed it was an effect of the illness. Though she could do little to change her mother's taste, she could try to alleviate the foul temper being exhibited by finding something that would satisfy her. For Dixon's sake, she hoped her mother's mood would change soon.

As she made her purchases and threaded her way among the stalls, a tall figure caught the corner of her eye and she was soon distracted from her task. It was hard to miss Mr. Thornton at any time – he cut such an impressive figure – but she was surprised to find him in the market in the middle of the day. Unconsciously as her eyes followed him, her feet did, as well. He was soon stopped by an acquaintance and she hung back, trying to hide the impression of loitering to passersby. Her basket was not full, but it was heavy enough and as time passed, it became more of a burden, and she wondered how long she would have to wait.

As soon as she thought this, she shook herself. Why was she following and waiting for Mr. Thornton? What a ridiculous thing to do! It was not as though he had seen her or desired her company, so there was no reason to linger as she did. She laughed to herself over her foolishness and quickly turned away.

Unfortunately, she was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she did not note the hump in the uneven road by her feet. Down went the basket and down Margaret came with it! More embarrassed than injured, she set herself upright and began to gather up her scattered goods, denying any helpful hands and assuring her well-being to a few concerned neighbors. All was done with a red face. She did not dare lift it for the world to see until she could feel it cool.

"May I be of assistance to you, Miss Hale?" His deep voice penetrated her cloud of mortification and she finally allowed herself to look up. Concern and amusement were mingled in his face as he bent over her with outstretched hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Thornton, but I am all right. It was just a clumsy oversight of mine. I was not minding my way," she said, getting herself to her feet. His proffered hand had not been taken, and he stood up straight again as she patted any dust off her skirt. "I do not usually trip or fall, but when it happens, it is sure to create a spectacle."

He smiled. "I did not witness the spectacle itself; I only heard the commotion. I am sorry to have missed the sight. It is rare indeed to find you so out of sorts; I would have enjoyed having a chance to see it."

Was he teasing her? "Well, you may be glad of the opportunity to see me at least in my current state, for I am not much less out of sorts than I was on the ground." She felt at her hair to see if any pins were knocked loose. She could only hope she did not look too disheveled, but she could not tell from Mr. Thornton's look what her appearance must be. He had the shadow of a smile on his lips and his eyes did not stray from her. But if that meant she looked well or tumbled was not clear.

"I thank you for your concern, Mr. Thornton, but I believe I am recovered from my accident." She did not know if she spoke to thank or dismiss him, but he did not acknowledge her statement directly. Instead, he bent down to retrieve her basket. She reached out a hand to take it, but he did not relinquish it to her.

"I feel it my duty to see you safely home, Miss Hale," he said with solemnity. He seemed most serious until she gave him an exasperated look in response, which prompted his shadow-smile to give way to a real one, confirming that he was daring to tease her. He rarely showed this full smile, and having always liked it when he did, she returned it with her own, silently allowing his friendly mockery. Before the moment had passed, he switched the basket to his left hand and held an arm out to her. "It would be my pleasure to accompany you, Miss Hale."

Without thought, she took his arm and they made their way away from the crowd. She was not in a humor to deny anyone the service of carrying the basket, cumbersome as it was, and she hoped and rather expected to enjoy the company, if the previous few minutes were any indication of the turn in their acquaintance.

"I am surprised to see you in this area of the town, Mr. Thornton. No doubt you have other business to attend to."

"No, my business actually brought me to this district. My mother had an errand to run, in fact, and as I am so set at _liberty_," she detected a note of bitterness in that word, "I offered to take care of it for her."

"At liberty?"

"Yes, you are aware, I'm sure, that the hands have been gracious enough to turn out, leaving me free to be my mother's messenger." He took little trouble to conceal his displeasure at such events.

"Oh." Now she understood what took him away from the mill in the middle of the day. Now she was sorry to have ever mentioned his presence, because as quickly as a friendly repartee was begun, it had ended and she regretted a missed opportunity to converse with him without any awkwardness.

After a short pause, he asked, "But what brings you here, Miss Hale? Are you also bound to your mother to run errands? Because I imagine she already has an eager friend who is ever ready to attend to her needs."

Margaret laughed, relieved and grateful that he would return to a light tone and amused by his reference to Dixon. "She does have that friend, indeed, but today she has been rather hard on poor Dixon. I came here to buy some things in order to keep the peace. Mama was complaining about some fruit, so I hope to fix the problem and so relieve Dixon from some of Mama's demands."

"And how does your mother do?" he asked, his voice suddenly quiet and solicitous.

She looked up to find his deep gaze upon her, his concern apparent in the solemnity of his mouth. She did not quite know whether to confess to him what she had not revealed to her own father, but she read in his face that he might already be aware of the trouble. She appreciated his concern and willingness to ask her directly about the situation. And heaven knew it would be a relief to her to speak to someone about the difficulties, even him.

Still, it was an effort to get out the words, "She is not well." He said nothing, but his manner encouraged her to elaborate. Still uneasily, she put forth the vital confession. "Dr. Donaldson has told us to prepare for the worst." She was unable to mask the pain in her voice. How could she lose her mother? How would she bear it? It wasn't fair. But no matter what she was willing to tell Mr. Thornton, she would not publicly admit to those resentments.

She could feel that he understood her in his words. "I am very sorry to hear it, Miss Hale. I confess I had some idea that she was very ill, but I was hoping it would not be so serious."

"I thank you," she said softly. "I do not know how long we may still have with her, although it may be quite some time yet. I do not know." She hated how cold her words sounded, but as much as she had wanted to relieve the burden of telling it, she found herself unable to express all her feelings to Mr. Thornton. If only she had Edith near! If only she felt that her father could bear such news. "Mr. Thornton," she halted their walk to turn to him. "I feel ashamed to admit this, but my father does not know the extent of my mother's illness, and I must ask you to not mention it to him. He could not bear such knowledge just now."

"You may rely on me, Miss Hale, I give you my word. If there is anything I may do to help, please do not hesitate to call on me or my mother. I am more than happy to be of service to your family." He bent closer to her, his whole manner bespeaking his sincerity; she was grateful for such sympathy and consideration and began to walk again.

"Thank you, Mr. Thornton. At present we are able to shift for ourselves. Mama is feeling better today; otherwise she would not be capable of harassing poor Dixon so."

"You will let me know if there is any change or if I can assist you?" he pressed.

She turned to him, ready to assure him that he needn't take so much trouble and worry on their account, but the look in his eye stopped her before she began. He was very much in earnest, and she knew she was in no position to deny a friend to her family. They had precious few of those in Milton; she could not refuse the genuine overtures he made.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Thornton."

He gave her a gentle smile of gratitude and they continued to her door. Once again she was ready to take the basket from him, but he did not seem inclined to give it away. "I wonder, Miss Hale, if I could perhaps visit your mother for a moment. To at least spare Dixon's grief for another minute or two."

"I'm sure she would be happy to receive you. Who knows what dire straits Dixon is in?" Surprised and gratified by this attention to her mother, she led him into the house, where she was finally able to relieve him of his load by sending him to the drawing room as she moved to the kitchen with the basket.

As she came up the stairs a few minutes later with a plate of fruit, she heard a soft laugh come from the drawing room. She had not expected her mother to be overly joyful at Mr. Thornton's company, so to hear her laughter was a relief on two accounts: his comfort and her mother's health. She entered to find them both smiling.

"Margaret," her mother greeted her, "Mr. Thornton has been telling me of the possibility of a dinner party at his home in the coming month."

He turned to Margaret, saying, "Mr. Horsfall, a business acquaintance of mine, will be in Milton, and there are many people he wants to see. I am sure that he will be happy to meet your family. I was telling Mrs. Hale that she would be sure to dazzle a man expecting only stern northern stock such as I."

Mrs. Hale tittered once more at this remark and responded, "For shame, Mr. Thornton. You should not encourage an aging woman's vanity." Margaret stood in amazement at the scene before her. To see her mother enjoying this man's presence was nothing short of miraculous. As for Mr. Thornton, she was uncertain if she had ever seen him smile as much as he had today. What was happening to the world?

Before she could say anything, Mr. Thornton stood. "I should take my leave, madam, I only had a few minutes to spare. I bid you good day. Good day, Miss Hale."

As he passed Margaret, she saw her mother make a motion for her to see him out, so she followed him down the stairs. "Thank you, Mr. Thornton, for whatever it was you said to make Mama so agreeable. However did you do it?"

There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he responded, "I have been informed that ladies like to think they are nice to look at. I merely took advantage of that knowledge."

She was once more surprised into silence as she recognized her own advice repeated back to her. She had not imagined that he would remember what she had said that night, but somehow he had.

His manner changed suddenly as he looked away from her and lost that twinkle in his eye. He seemed to stumble over his words as he said, "I hope, Miss Hale, that when we have our dinner party, you are able to attend."

"I shall be happy to, Mr. Thornton," she said easily, wondering what could have prompted his change in manner. He nodded at her answer, gave a brief smile, and bidding farewell, walked hurriedly out the door.

* * *

As he walked away from the Hale home, he cursed his sudden anxiety. He had been doing so well and then her proximity made him almost forget himself and his resolve to be easy and friendly. It was difficult for him to keep up such behavior; he had not been in the practice of speaking to friends for a long time, after all. He simply hadn't the time. But he knew that if he was ever going to have a fighting hope to win Margaret, he would have to get in such a habit. He was relatively pleased with his efforts this day, but there was that stumble at the end, so he made his exit as quickly as possible before he gave himself completely away.

He had thought over the previous days of how to engage Margaret's attention and friendship, but he came to the conclusion that he would not be able to put his new behavior into action until the next time he was in her home. Even then, a lesson with Mr. Hale did not ensure even a glimpse of Margaret, and any meeting between them would be absurdly short. It would not give him much time to do or say anything beyond the usual formalities. A chance encounter had not ever crossed his mind, so he had despaired of how he could ever change their association before his impatience ran him mad.

But then today he had heard some exclamations in the market and saw a crowd of people surround a young lady who had taken a fall, and they parted to reveal _her_! She was before him, clearly uninjured but desperately trying to put herself and her basket back together, and he could not believe his good luck. Here was his chance; he had to take it. He only hoped that when he opened his mouth, he would not sound an utter fool.

And by some miracle, she had responded! He steeled up his courage and offered her his arm, and she had taken it! He was under the impression that she gave little thought to the gesture, but it meant the world to him. To be allowed in her company, in her good graces, was something to smile over, but now he was touching her for the first time. He could feel the pressure of her arm against his and he rejoiced inwardly. She had accepted this much, and it so overwhelmed him that he could not stay angry very long when she inadvertently reminded him of the strike and why he was available to be in the neighborhood at all. He was quick to turn the conversation to her.

Unfortunately, this did little to lighten the mood as she mentioned her mother. His fear was confirmed as she informed him of Mrs. Hale's condition, and he offered his sympathy as best he could. In visiting Mrs. Hale, he did wish to recommend himself to Margaret, but he also knew the pain of losing a parent, and wanted to be of some real use to her family. He respected and admired Mr. Hale, and it was the least he could do to offer his services and show Mrs. Hale some attention.

He could see he surprised Margaret by his request to see her mother, but it was nothing to the shock on Mrs. Hale's face when he entered the drawing room and pulled a chair next to her. He wasn't fully aware of everything he said, but he tried to work in an innocent compliment and it seemed to work in making some headway in Mrs. Hale's quarrelsome mood. Perhaps he was better at being in friendly company than he gave himself credit for.

But that farewell to Margaret tainted his confidence. He had become nervous after referring to their conversation, afraid she would too quickly make the connection to how he had acted around her today and cast him out in disgust. He made a hasty exit, hoping that she would not think too badly of his awkward words. He hoped for her generosity. And was it so impossible to hope for? After all, he grinned to himself, she had taken his arm today.


	6. Two Steps Backward

Margaret came home from a visit to Bessy to find two letters on the table. One was covered in foreign postmarks, and upon examining the direction, she recognized her Aunt Shaw's hand. Both were addressed to her mother, so she took them up with her.

"Mama, these notes have arrived for you. You must tell me all Aunt Shaw says about Italy. I am curious to know about the sights she has seen."

Mrs. Hale took the letters with a languid hand, asking, "Were you visiting that poor girl again, Margaret?" An air of disapproval was in her voice, but Margaret paid it no heed.

"Yes, and I also visited a neighboring family of hers, the Bouchers. They are in far worse condition and I wanted to see if there was any little I could do for them."

"You take too much upon yourself. I am not sure it can be quite right to parade into these people's homes as you do."

"Nonsense, Mama. It is no less proper than it was to visit and help the needy parishioners in Helstone. And these Milton families suffer so; I would not be happy ignoring their want while I live so comfortably. Truly, Mama, I want to be of service to them. Mrs. Boucher is herself not well, and I wanted to see the children." She did not go on, unwilling as she was to distress her mother further. She was sure Mrs. Hale would not enjoy hearing about the horrid conditions Margaret had seen. The Higgins' small home was very humble, but their style of living seemed palatial in comparison to the poor Bouchers.

"Well, you will do what you think is right, I suppose. Only I hope you do not make yourself ill by traipsing in and out wherever you please, Margaret."

"I will not, Mama," said in as meek and submissive a tone as she could muster. "Will you read me Aunt Shaw's letter?"

After going over the finer points of her sister's letter about Naples and the oppressive heat to be experienced there, Mrs. Hale opened the second note to discover it was an invitation to the dinner party that Mr. Thornton had hinted at. She had quite grasped on to the idea since he had mentioned it, and was very pleased to have confirmation that her family was given such an attention. There was but one fly in the ointment.

"I'm sure, Margaret, that I am not well enough to attend such an event. I do not trust my strength leaving the house, you know, and I'm sure a crowd would only upset me."

Distressed by this topic, Margaret was quick to say, "If you do not go, I certainly cannot leave you behind." And after she had assured Mr. Thornton she would come! She fought to overcome any feeling of disappointment with the reminder of her duty to her mother.

But Mrs. Hale was adamant. "No, no, Margaret, you and your father must go! It is surely something to be invited by the Thorntons, and you must accept, even if I cannot. You must go and remember everything you see so I may know what is done for such parties in Milton. And of course we must decide on something for you to wear. It will be quite the occasion, and you will go."

Margaret was tempted to make another objection, but her mother had assumed a determined look in her eye that was quite unheard of for her, so Margaret acquiesced to the order. She was unsure of her enjoyment of such a party among so many people she did not know, but for her mother's sake she would try to bear it.

Mrs. Hale soon rang for Dixon, upon whose entrance she said, "Pray, Dixon, please ask Mr. Thornton when he is done with his lesson to come up. I wish to speak to him."

Margaret looked up from her work at the name. Was Mr. Thornton here? She had quite forgotten it was his usual day for lessons, as she rarely saw him on such days. But he _was_ here and she would soon see him. She found it hard to concentrate on her work for some unexplainable reason until she heard his step on the stairs and Dixon's voice requesting him to come up. Her father had another pupil waiting to begin his lesson, so Mr. Thornton came up alone.

"Good day, Mrs. Hale. Miss Hale," he looked to each of them with a bow. She said nothing, but nodded her head at him. "I understand you wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes, Mr. Thornton, please sit a moment if you can spare the time," Mrs. Hale invited him to take a chair nearby. He sat directly. "We have just received your mother's note, and I wanted to thank you for the civility and honor of the attention. I myself will not be able to attend, but I will send Mr. Hale and Margaret in my place, and I'm sure they will be delighted by the evening."

He glanced at Margaret when Mrs. Hale refused on her own behalf, reading in her veiled eyes Mrs. Hale's reasons for refusal. But he turned back to Mrs. Hale quickly and replied, "I am sorry we will not be graced by your presence, ma'am. I will tell my mother of your regrets, and I can assure you she will understand."

"Yes, well, it will still be a pleasant evening for you," Mrs. Hale was eager to gloss over any explanation of why she would not come, blissfully unaware that Mr. Thornton was in the secret. "I was telling Margaret we must choose something for her to wear. She has had no occasion to wear any finery since her cousin's wedding last year, and will be happy for the chance."

Margaret, self-conscious of the way she was introduced to the conversation, spoke quickly, "Mama, I am not a doll to be dressed up. I have done very well without such occasions for finery."

"Yes, but I was not able to see you at Edith's wedding, and I can look forward to seeing you in such attire for this party, at least."

"Miss Hale always looks so well in whatever she wears, that I cannot imagine how she can better her appearance." Mr. Thornton spoke surely, but at Margaret's rapid turn of the head toward him, he just as quickly dropped his gaze to the floor.

He had just complimented her! It was so unexpected and out of character that Margaret took great trouble to conceal her surprise at such a statement. She was grateful that her mother took the compliment as a matter of course and went on talking, because she was sure she would lose any composure if she tried to speak. It was not only the compliment that took her aback, but the betrayal of his own embarrassment as he had refused to meet her eyes after speaking. What could such behavior mean? She shook herself out of her wonderings and tried to attend once more to what her mother was saying.

". . . and what decorations your mother provides. It has been some time since I myself attended a dinner party, so I hardly know how things are done nowadays. I hope that Margaret is an attentive guest, for I will want to know much about it."

"I will do my best, Mama," she managed. Mr. Thornton was still averting his eyes to her, but at least he had lifted his head again to face her mother. Perhaps he did not want to draw undue attention from Mrs. Hale to what he had said.

There was a lull in the conversation that was exceptionally awkward for two of the three people occupying the drawing room, but the third still had not seemed to notice it. In fact, Hrs. Hale, after a slight pause, drew herself slowly to her feet and said, "If you will excuse me, Mr. Thornton, I must speak to Dixon. Margaret, you may see Mr. Thornton out when he is ready to leave." Without another word, she was gone, leaving her astonished daughter completely at a loss for words.

There was some further silence as they still dared not look at each other, and Margaret wondered why he did not stand and take his leave. He had no reason to stay, after all. The longer he did not speak, the more determined she became to remain silent. If she did not encourage him to talk, he must leave. And if he left, she could try to make sense of what had just occurred. But he would not leave!

He cleared his throat, but instead of offering a farewell, he asked, "Why did your mother not see you before? I mean, in your finery, as she calls it?"

Distantly she replied, "My mother was in Helstone and was not able to come to London for Edith's wedding."

She rather thought her succinct answer would deter him, but he caught on to a part of her reply. "London? It appears you were there often. You mentioned having been there for the Exhibition with your aunt."

"Yes. I was living with her until Edith married. I lived in Helstone as a girl, but my mother desired me to gain some refinement in my formative years, so my aunt took me in when I was nine. I still visited Helstone, but London was my home for many years." As she explained this part of her history, she could feel some of the tension leaving the air.

"I had not known that, although it does explain why you were able to be dragged to a play three times by your cousin." This dissipated any remaining discomfort as they both smiled at his joking allusion.

"Yes, the entertainment to be offered in Helstone is not nearly as varied as London."

"Did you miss that when you returned there?" He had assumed his usual stance with his elbows on his knees as he spoke, and Margaret took this as a sign that he was by no means inclined to cut their conversation short. She was beginning to lessen her own surprise at being no more inclined, herself.

"At times, perhaps. But the two places were so different that I rarely thought about what I was missing. The way I spent my time was very different, but no less worthy in either place. Of course, it was a much quieter life in Helstone, but more peaceful, and I daresay sometimes more happy. I had so little time to be with my parents that I was grateful for all the quiet evenings we spent together."

"So you were unhappy at times in London?"

"When I first arrived, certainly. I was a small girl being sent away from her family, so I hated it at first. But although I always missed my parents, the pain lessened and I learned to like and even love London. If you live in a place long enough, you are sure to find something you like."

"Have you found anything in Milton to like, Miss Hale?" The question itself was innocuous enough, but the sudden change in his manner gave it an intensity that caused her breath to hitch in her throat. His voice was soft and his eyes had darkened. She felt herself caught again in his penetrating stare, unable and almost unwilling to look away. There was that something in his look that brought on the familiar pressure on her chest, as she tried to decipher his meaning. For surely there was another question unspoken that he was trying to impress upon her, but she could not make it out. The hope that no one would walk in seized her, but the instant she realized this hope, she made herself turn away. That look, the feeling it stirred in her, though she could not name it, could hardly be proper. She forced herself to speak.

"Yes, I believe I have found something to like here." She must purge the shaky tremor from her voice; she must! "I have found friends in unexpected places. My friend Bessy, for instance," her voice calmed and became stronger. "She lives in Frances Street, and I am grateful for an opportunity to do any good I can for her and her neighbors."

"Frances Street." His brow furrowed. "In the Princeton district, you mean?" His eyes remained dark, but there was a hint of menace surfacing in his voice. "I'm surprised you keep such company."

"Bessy is my friend," she repeated heatedly, already tired of her mother's disapproval. She did not need to defend her choice in friends to Mr. Thornton, as well. "And she has neighbors in great need. Any help I give them is no different from anything I did for the needy in Helstone, helping my father's parishioners." Despite herself, she was growing defensive under his now-intruding stare.

"And what kind of help do you give them?" he questioned rather forcefully.

"Anything I am able. It is not wrong to give kindness to others, Mr. Thornton, at least as far as I am aware," she said hotly.

"No doubt you know, Miss Hale," he responded in a cold tone, "that these people you show a 'kindness' for are those who have turned out, who refuse to work and provide for their families?"

"They have reason for their actions!"

His voice rose to match hers. "And they will be defeated! Giving them such charity only prolongs their suffering; they go on fighting with such help as you offer, but it lengthens the strike and gives them a false hope that they can win!"

"And who says they may not?"

He stood quickly. He kept silent, but anyone could see the cold fury that took hold of his features. His movement was so sudden, Margaret sat back as though he had slapped her. What had changed to make this happen? How had their talk elevated so quickly into an argument? One moment they had sat in awkward silence, another moment happy recollections, and now this sudden and confusing anger? But she could not back away from what she believed was right, so her own wrath would not abate, no matter her dismay at such a turn.

When he spoke again, his voice had quieted, but he struggled to keep it steady. "It is clear that you will insist on giving your sympathies to others without attempting to understand my position. If this is to always be the case between us, it is better if such subjects are avoided. If you will excuse me, I do have business to attend to, despite the efforts of your friends. Good day, Miss Hale."

With these words he walked out of the room, leaving Margaret feeling bereft and cold.


	7. Realization and Resolution

**A/N:** Oh, I am so glad that none of you have threatened to torch my house after leaving a chapter that way. For those unfamiliar with the book, the whole debate of the kindness/unkindness of giving charity to the strikers is not addressed between Margaret and John at any point (it's brought up with margaret and her dad, although he mentions john's opinions), but I thought it was important to highlight that although John's making some good moves, there is still a pretty big gulf between him and Margaret about the strike. And yeah, this is fanfiction and there will be inevitable moments of OOC-ness and an unwitting 21st-century spin on some things, but "the course of true love never did run smooth" and they've still got differences to resolve. I'm grateful that many of you reviewers out there understand that and don't hate me for putting conflict in there. But never fear! I am all for a happy ending, even if bumps are strewn about on the way to it. Back to your regularly-scheduled programming.

* * *

Margaret threw herself on her bed, exhausted by the turmoil within her that would not cease. After Mr. Thornton's departure, she had little idea of her mother's needs or the concerns she harbored for Bessy and her neighbors. All that filled her body and mind was Mr. Thornton and the conflicting emotions that he evoked within her in so short a period of time. She doubted they had been together for a full ten minutes and there was such an array of feelings to be taken from that time: surprise, embarrassment, reluctance, happiness, contentment, intensity, and then anger.

And such anger! She rolled on to her side as she remembered the harsh lines of his face as he cut their argument short. They had argued before, but he had never betrayed such a lack of control over his frustration. To see such ire in him frightened her a little, even if he did take pains to rein in whatever it was he truly wished to say. Why did he have to make life so difficult for her, for the people whose lives he affected?

For she could not, would not regret her words, urging kindness to those in need. And yet he would give no credence to such an idea, insisting on the logic that made her nearly hate him. Why could he cast aside such attempts on her part to make life more bearable for those suffering, and most of all, _how_ could he? Was there no humanity in him at all? Was his entire life dictated by logic and reason? Was there no room in him for compassion?

Even as these questions tumbled over each other in her mind, fighting for prominence, she could not help thinking of his behavior to her parents, to herself, and most likely to his own family. Was there no humanity in the way he had been a friend to her father, a man who by virtue of his choices had been forced to leave behind most who would call him friend? Was there no compassion in his entire being as he offered her sympathy when she confessed to him of her mother? Was there not kindness in how he spoke to her mother and even aroused laughter from her ever-weakening body? She could not deny those actions, and yet he still was cold and indifferent to the plight of those he employed. There was no accounting for the inconsistency, no explanation, no reconciliation between the two men she saw in him. Was there?

She could not lie still as she thought of him and was soon pacing her room, hating the confusion she felt over him. Even just thinking of how he had recently changed around her was overwhelming. Her own anger dying away as the minutes passed, she was left with an image forcing entry into her thoughts, an image of his imploring eyes as he asked her what she found to like in Milton. She had understood the intensity of his expression, but not the unuttered question she felt surge from him. What had he really been asking her? What was in his eyes that she had felt too overcome to catch? Could it have been . . . ?

She stopped her pacing, disbelief at the impossible thought. No, he couldn't possibly. He couldn't possibly have been expressing such a sentiment. But perhaps, as she thought over their recent encounters, perhaps it explained his behavior to her in a way she had not considered. Could it be? Could that something she had not understood be . . . hope? Hope that he could be one of those things she had found to like in Milton. Hope that she could feel something for him. Hope that she would understand his attentions to her, what he might be feeling for her.

Once more she tried to convince herself that such a conclusion was impossible. Mr. Thornton could not like her. He was not doing anything other than try to be a friend for her father's sake. He could not like her. And she . . . she could not like him.

Doubt flooded her. She could like him, she knew very well. She already did, thanks to their recent meetings. But could she feel anything beyond that for him?

She felt her entire being flush as she thought over his conduct and her own words of how a man should court a woman. Only now did she see the connection: his offering his arm to her, his desire to remain in her company, his compliment to her and the subsequent embarrassment. How had she missed it? He was taking her words to heart and trying to show her his feelings!

His feelings.

He had feelings for her. This realization floored her. She forgot all else in this simple fact. He had feelings for her! But this realization brought her no peace, no joy, no happiness. How could it? For in such a wretched state, she could not see any possible way that she could return those feelings. Could she?

* * *

"Fool!" he exploded to himself as he stormed away from the Hale residence. He gave no heed to the curious looks given him by those he passed; what cared he for them? He could only concentrate on the cruel dispute he had with Margaret and what a simpleton he could be for hoping to be worthy of her. Her blank refusal to grasp his perspective of the strike was proof enough that she would never see him as anything but the tyrannical master she had been poisoned to perceive in him. She was too stubborn, and he had no chance to make her see reason, to understand that there was more at stake here than the rate of wage his workers received.

He continued in this thunderous train of thought most of his way home, alternately cursing his blasted temper and wondering why the Hales had to come to Milton in the first place. He did not want to focus on anything but his anger, because despite what Miss Hale thought, he knew that he was not to blame for the situation. He knew it! He wanted to remain in his righteous indignation. She was too blind to see the two sides of the question, and he wanted to convince himself that his loss of temper was justified.

When he reached the mill gate, he came to a stop. His fury disappeared with his ferocious stride. He could only stand there in despair over his behavior. Losing his temper, revealing so blatantly his anger to her was undeniably wrong, and he knew it. He hated to admit it, but there it was. No matter that they were on opposing sides, he should have maintained control. If he had done so, maybe he could have helped her understand . . . but, no, she would never accept any explanation he had to give. She would never give him any chance, and he had no hope.

He had almost convinced himself she began to feel something for him during that moment her eyes locked onto his. He knew he took great risk by revealing himself so fully, but the sparkle in her eye seemed to reward that risk and requite him without words. He knew she could not feel as deeply as he did. And yet, she had accepted his look. And she shared it. Perhaps there _was_ hope then, in that precious moment. But it had broken, and the brief illusion he built up had shattered.

He walked into the dining room where his mother spent her days to find her and Fanny occupied in talk over the dinner party. He did not want to give alarm to his mother or a ready track for Fanny to ridicule him, so he forced himself to speak with equanimity, despite the grief that associated itself with his message. "Mrs. Hale received your invitation, Mother, and was very pleased. She herself cannot come to the party, but she answered for Mr. and Miss Hale's coming." Somehow he kept his control as he spoke her name.

"I wonder that she cannot take the trouble to answer with a note, as anybody else would," Mrs. Thornton replied. "I suppose she is too much of a fine lady for that."

"I'm sure you will receive a note from the Hales all the same; she knew I was in the house when she received your note and wished to thank me in person; that's all."

Hearing a hint of defense in his words, Mrs. Thornton looked closer at her son, but he seemed perfectly cool. "I suppose she is too unwell to come herself." She could not entirely hide the censure in her voice, as she disapproved of such affectations by a "fine lady" who labelled herself an invalid to avoid Milton society.

He knew her double meaning, but he did not feel it his right to betray Margaret's confidence and reveal the extent of Mrs. Hale's illness simply to secure his mother's compassion. But he did think that Mrs. Hale deserved more justice from his mother as he said, "Mother, I do believe that Mrs. Hale is very far from well. They are not the kind of family to make false excuses."

"How you profess to understand these Hales, John!" his sister exclaimed. "Are they really so very different from other people?"

He would not reply. Mrs. Thornton responded, "They do not seem to me out of the common way. He appears a worthy kind of man." She refrained from casting further aspersions on the mother. If John vouched for Mrs. Hale, she would give her the benefit of the doubt. She kept silent on her lingering belief that Mrs. Hale would not be above giving a false excuse to stay away if she were not ill, however, no matter John's trust. "As for Miss Hale, she gives herself airs, which is a puzzle to me. They are not rich, after all, and never have been from all I can hear."

"And she's not accomplished, Mother; she cannot play."

He could not stop himself from interrupting. "Go on, Fanny. What else does she lack to bring her up to your standard?" As angry as he was at Margaret, he could not abide to hear her insulted, especially by one such as Fanny who could not know how to judge Margaret's real worth.

"I heard Miss Hale say herself she cannot play, John. You needn't be so hard on Fanny."

Silence was all her reply, but when Fanny was absorbed in her own task, he placed a hand on Mrs. Thornton's shoulder and said quietly, "I wish you would like Miss Hale."

"Why?" She was suddenly wary of such a request.

"I foresee trouble and loneliness for her and she has not many friends. Her father is my friend, and I know she would benefit from any care you can offer her." He tried to keep his tone inconspicuous, but his mother was ready to suspect more.

"You're never thinking of marrying her?" she asked, half bewildered and half expressing a joke, hoping he would give her a flat denial.

"She would never have me," he replied, trying to keep his pain masked. He would not have his mother know his foolish pretensions for the world. He would give them up and forget Margaret; better his mother never know how close he had come to confessing his previous intentions.

Relieved at his statement, she agreed with him. "No, she wouldn't. She has too good an opinion of herself to take you. Why, she laughed in my face at the thought of it. I'd like to know where she could find someone better."

He could bear no more and left the room as quickly as he dared. He took himself to his office and made himself focus on business. Time had gone on long enough and he needed the mill running or risk total collapse. He spent several hours getting things in order, for he would soon send for hands from Ireland. It would be more trouble and expense than he cared to go to, but he must do it or go under. He hoped throwing himself into the work would relieve his mind of her, but despite his best efforts to keep single-minded, his thoughts strayed to her offended face more than once before the day ended.

* * *

His mother did not see him the next day. He had disappeared from the house before breakfast and there was no telling where he might have gone. But he could not have given her any indication of his destination had she seen him, anyway. He hardly knew where he was walking to. Sleep had eluded him and he felt nothing but a desire to work through his contradictory thoughts. For Margaret was never far from him, as much as he might have decided to give up any idea of her the day before. She could not be banished so easily and he felt his feeble resolve teetering.

Before he knew it, he was on the familiar path to Crampton, habit having overtaken conscious thought. When he came to himself and saw where he was headed, he took in his surroundings and saw the cemetery not far. With a reluctant and heavy heart, he directed his steps inside and was soon at his father's grave.

Although ruined at his death, Mrs. Thornton had insisted the expense be scrounged up to pay for a proper burial, but John had been less than pleased at the effort. They had been left behind with nothing and he was meant to still honor this man who abandoned them? As time passed, his bitterness and resentment had subsided in the memory and loss of a good father, but visiting his place of rest was still not a customary occurrence. However, he needed to stop and collect his thoughts, and here was as good a place as any to do it.

His anger toward Margaret was gone. Only shame and sorrow remained. He had spoken ill to her and come to the realization she would never view him as simply John Thornton the man. If he could have persuaded her that he was only that, really, maybe he would have had a fighting chance, but that was not to be. And why should it be otherwise? In Margaret's limited perspective, it was only natural she should take up the cause of those who suffered. Even as he offered her explanations for his business, he had only relied on logic and reason to speak for him. He needed to run his business on such principles, but he had given no indication that outside of the mill he had human feeling. And the little he had done to make any headway with her had clearly come too late. Why should she accept a man she would never see _as_ a man? She would never see him as anything but the master she first judged him and seen him to be. He despaired of that ever changing. So he must forget her and put past himself these tormenting thoughts and feelings that had plagued him since leaving her home. He was adamant that he would move on; he was firmly resolved to do it.

"Mr. Thornton?" a quiet and familiar voice spoke.

He turned to see her approach and his heart traitorously bounded.

So much for his resolution.


	8. Apologies

After a long night spent in contemplation, Margaret was eager to escape the confines of her home. She was weary and sorrowful, and she had no desire to invent an explanation for her haggard appearance and distant mood to her family.

She walked for some time before her feet took her on a familiar path by the cemetery. She was used to being quite alone there, but as she approached she froze in her steps as she saw Mr. Thornton enter. Curiosity and a little shame mingled within her as she wondered if his thoughts mirrored hers at all, regretful and sorry. She knew she wanted his forgiveness for her behavior, but she was afraid to ask for it. Still, she followed him silently, hoping to work up the courage to speak to him before she lost her nerve.

He came to a halt by a gravestone and stood there for some time, his hand resting on the stone, his head bowed. One would almost think he had come to pay his respects, but Margaret suspected and half-hoped his thoughts were elsewhere.

After admitting to herself Mr. Thornton's feeling for her the previous day, she had spent several minutes considering whether she felt anything for him. Immediately she told herself she did not, but once again the memory of his eyes penetrated her, causing doubt and uncertainty. She would once and for all have to examine the feelings she experienced at his hands, no longer able to simply sweep the unknown away without giving it a name. She would need to decide what it meant when he looked at her, eliciting the itch in her skin and the pressure that made her breathe more quickly.

There was no doubt that he ignited some sort of passion within her, one that had exhorted her more to argument than attraction, but there must be something even in that. No man had ever affected her in such a way and no man had distracted her so much. But in what way did he do so? Was he an irritant or a friend? An enemy or . . . she hesitated a moment before she used the word . . . lover? As she studied this out, she came to a realization she could no longer deny. She was affected by him in much the same way she imagined he was affected by her, more than she had realized, or at least admitted. She felt foolish for having denied the feeling for so long, especially as she recalled her condemning words about a man not knowing his feelings for a woman. Mr. Thornton himself had spoken of not recognizing such a feeling and what it would be like, and she now felt she could understand to some degree what was meant.

But being affected by him did not mean that she was in love or anywhere near it. It was impossible to think he could be in love with her, despite his attentions. She knew he had feelings for her, and perhaps she had feelings for him, but she knew she did not love him. She had only just begun to know what it was to like him! To make the leap from liking to loving in the matter of a day was simply not feasible. And considering how vehemently she opposed him on so vital a subject as the welfare of others, she was not sure if she could ever make such a leap.

Had his feelings for her been part of what made him so angry? If he were indifferent to her, her opinion of his treatment of his workers would matter little, and no doubt they could have spoken in a more rational manner. Instead she took up against him, and surely that caused him pain, because he must want her to think well of him. He wanted her to understand him, and knowing he had a human heart, she should have given him more of chance to explain before accusing him of callousness. Because even though she had not said the words of accusation, she had implied them in every expression. Was this fair? Was there more to the pitiful situation of the strike that she was ignorant of? If she truly wished to regain Mr. Thornton's friendship, she would have to give him a chance and not be prejudiced against everything he said. Could she do it?

As she watched him by the grave, she came to a decision. She was unsure still if she could ever accept him as a lover, but she did want to retain him as a friend. He had proved a valuable and sincere one, after all, and she had enjoyed herself with him in that all-too-brief time. But she must not admit to him that she had realized his feelings. It would be too much given their circumstances to allude to it. If she acknowledged them, she was afraid he would either pull away completely or hope too much. She wanted to fix what had broken between them yesterday, but she did not want to give him misleading encouragement.

But her decision still required courage as she stepped closer to him and spoke his name. He turned to her, his expression surprised, but he made no effort to speak beyond saying her name and nodding in greeting. She only hoped his stiffness was due to lingering awkwardness and not anger from the memory of yesterday.

She stepped ever closer as she spoke, her words slow and stilted, unused as she was to asking forgiveness or repairing a not-quite friendship. "Mr. Thornton, I wish to . . . I must beg your pardon for my . . . for the way I spoke to you." If it was possible, his body stiffened more and his eyes widened as she stammered through her apology. "I admit that I find it difficult to understand you, but I am not sure I have given enough effort to do so. I have been unfair to you and I apologize."

The air was thick was tension as she waited for and feared his response. She sneaked a glance at his face and saw he was struggling with what to say, but she could not tell if her words were well received. She began to twist her hands together in anxiety as she awaited him.

Finally he broke the silence. "Miss Hale, I do not know what has led you to believe that you are in the wrong for the shameful way I treated you, but I can assure you, your apology is not necessary. It is I who am at fault, I who should ask forgiveness."

The knot in her stomach loosened at his words and she chanced a small smile. Was it possible that his thoughts really _had_ mirrored hers in a way, that they both blamed themselves for their conduct while absolving the other of fault? It was appearing to be the case, so perhaps a reconciliation would not be so improbable.

"Really, Miss Hale, I am to blame. I should never have lost my temper and been so unforgivably rude to leave without trying to speak to you kindly. I am sorry for being angry. I have been unfair, as well."

She took yet another step closer. "I should be more willing to ask for your side."

He followed suit and walked slowly to her. "And I should be more understanding of your experience."

"So we may begin again, Mr. Thornton, to be friends?" She trusted the word "friend" would not disappoint him.

"If that is what you wish." He gave no indication of disappointment, but of hope.

"It is."

"Then friends we are, Miss Hale."

They were near enough to take hands, yet they did not. She felt constrained by her unspoken knowledge of his feelings and he was afraid of taking a liberty she was not ready for. With so fragile a thing as their friendship seemed to be, neither wanted to be guilty of a misstep. The only assurance and seal they had on their tongue-tied resolution was softened voices and kind faces. But it was enough.

"Do you often come here?" she asked, casting about for a new topic.

"Occasionally. My father is buried here." He gestured to the stone he had taken his first post by.

"Oh, I see." Naturally she should blunder into another uneasy topic. She had already seen evidence that he did not like to speak of his past, but it did not stop her curiosity. She would not continue in that vein as she hoped to think of something else to say.

To her surprise, he took up the topic himself. "We went to quite a lot of trouble for his burial. At least I felt it was trouble at the time. We had little left, but Mother was insistent he not be laid to rest in a pauper's grave. I resented the expense. There was already so much to pay for . . . and to be repaid."

Remembering what her father shared about how Mr. Thornton had repaid his father's creditors, she replied, "Surely you did not need to take upon yourself the burden of those debts. They were not yours; they could have been forgiven, couldn't they?"

He looked at her with wonder and pity. "Miss Hale, I am afraid that business cannot be run on such great principles as kindness and forgiveness. Those men needed to be paid to maintain their livelihood. It was not cruelty that kept the debts alive, but simple need. A business needs money to run efficiently, and exercising such values is unwise and imprudent. No, it was the honorable thing to do, making certain that as few people as possible were adversely affected by my father's actions. Perhaps some of them would have forgiven the debt, but I would not have been easy knowing that they had to suffer a loss that I could make reparation for."

Margaret took a moment to marvel once more at the integrity Mr. Thornton felt so important to live by, but she did not miss his use of the word "kindness" that had thrown such a wrench into their conversation the day before. He spoke gently, however, and she felt the first hint that although Mr. Thornton was not overly kind to his workers in the way she thought he should, that did not naturally signify that he was cruel. She had taken it for granted that a master could only be one or the other. Perhaps such was not the case.

"So you must adopt such practices yourself, Mr. Thornton? Only seeing to the efficient running of your business?" She tried to keep any note of accusation from her words, but he sighed in response, so she knew she had not succeeded. However, Mr. Thornton seemed more weary and saddened than angry at her.

"Miss Hale, I know we disagree, but I want this not to be such a source of misunderstanding between us. I do not know if you will ever interpret my words in a way that does not prove me to be the harsh and greedy master. We have spoken about this before, so I am hesitant because my words may still fall on deaf ears."

Touched that he would admit his uncertainty and be honest with her about his insecurities, she felt the more determined to assure him of her open mind, saying that she also wished to heal the breach and overcome this barrier. He directed her to a bench and they sat down.

"As I said, Miss Hale, a business cannot operate if it relies on the values you champion. I do not mean to say they are worthless, but they have little place in such an institution where goods, work, and money all come into play. In the end, I must see to my duty of running the mill, and that is the greatest kindness I can give to the workers. If I neglect my duty, if I do not operate on sound business practices, the mill will fail and I will have injured all who work for me, not only myself. I know on whom I rely for the mill to run, and I do my best to see that they are compensated."

"But you are unable to raise their wages," she said quietly, afraid of provoking him away from his gentle tone.

"As much as they don't believe it, but it is true. Some foolhardy leaders convince the others I am lining my own pockets and that the cotton trade is doing well. I can assure you I am not lining my pockets and the trade is not so straight-forward as they make it out. The Americans are flooding the market, I have creditors that do not pay their bills on time, investors come and go, and the state of trade is constantly in flux. There is nothing I can do to change that. I can only work to keep the mill going amidst the change."

"Can you not tell them your reasons? They are desperate and angry, but I'm sure they cannot be so unreasonable as to not listen."

"Do you think such attempts have not been tried? But they persist in thinking the worst of us and that we are making excuses to keep them poor and in the dark. I have never tried because I know it to be a fruitless endeavor."

"That is simply not fair. You cannot lump them all into one group as you think they do to you. Can you not try?"

He looked away at this question, and Margaret felt helpless against his staunch belief that nothing could be done. She decided to try a different tack.

"If you are not able to currently raise wages, is there not something else you can do, to take an interest in their lives, to see how they spend their money and advise them?"

He looked up at her once more, his expression now incredulous. "To what purpose, Miss Hale? To exercise authority and tyranny over how they live their private lives? Because I do not do enough of that at the mill?"

"Do you see it as tyranny to try helping others?"

"When it comes across as though I am setting myself up as a ruler, even a benevolent ruler, giving them orders on how to run their lives away from the mill, yes. We are independent here, and we value it greatly. That is something the hands and I actually have in common. I do not take kindly to anyone telling me how to run my mill or spend my days. Why would the workers be any different?"

"Perhaps they would appreciate knowing you had a concern in their affairs."

He shook his head. "Miss Hale, you have met many working men now. Can you honestly tell me that any one of them would not resent my 'taking an interest', as you call it? That they would not think of any service I offer them as extremely high-handed?" He set his familiar penetrating stare on her, but in a way that urged her to think, rather than making her warm.

She looked away as she thought of the workers she had met. Nicholas Higgins immediately came to mind and she nearly laughed at imagining what he might say if a master went poking his nose around his private business. She was sure that even if his words did not match exactly what she imagined, his indignation and sentiment would be the same. No, Mr. Thornton was right. How many of the workers would not see any efforts he made as unwelcome interference? Very few, if any, was her conclusion.

She looked back to see him considering her and seeing her answer written in her face. "So what would you have me do, Miss Hale? I can do no more than my duty to the mill."

"There must be something so that . . . so that it is not such a war. So you are not all so angry at each other." She did not want to give in to despair just yet, even if he had won a point, and no matter how futile it seemed.

He smirked at the hope in her eyes. "Well, Miss Hale, I put my faith in you to come up with any solution. If anyone can find a way to bleed such bitterness from this proceeding, I believe you can."

She thanked him quietly for his confidence and the subject came to a close. She was still dissatisfied with the strike and what Mr. Thornton viewed as a lost cause, but she had opened her mind to his way of thinking and was glad for the experience. Instead of cold indifference, she had seen a man dedicated to his duty. And she could understand now that to him, that was the greatest kindness he could offer his workers. Some may refuse to see it in that light, but she would no longer.

Of course, she thought to herself, there is still room for improvement.

Silence had fallen between them again, but thankfully it contained little tension, only a lingering discomfort as both were still very aware of their recent schism. Mr. Thornton soon looked at his watch and said, "I must return to the mill. The time this morning has gotten away from me."

They both stood, unsure of what to say on parting. Before the awkwardness could return in full force, however, he nodded his head saying, "Good day, Miss Hale."

"Good day, Mr. Thornton."

She lingered among the graves as he walked away, many emotions running through her. Gratitude was the most prominent, however; gratitude that they had been given a second chance. She resolved that she would yet find a way to bridge the gap between masters and men. Somehow she would do it. And something told her Mr. Thornton would be just the master to take part in whatever she devised. She would not give up hope.


	9. Shy

Margaret awoke suddenly. Disoriented, she cast her eyes around her room until full consciousness returned. When it did, she guessed it was still deep night, many hours still until daybreak. From the wakefulness she felt, she knew it was not likely she would fall back asleep quickly. The vague recollection of images from her dreams still swam about her, and she wondered if they had anything to do with bringing her out of slumber. A mirror, gentle hands, and a feeling of contentment were all she could recall, and she was sure nothing else would come to her. She very rarely remembered her dreams.

Hoping to lure herself back to sleep, she lit a candle and picked up a book. She generally read before going to bed, so she trusted that reading would make her body react to habit and she would tire again. She became absorbed in the book soon enough, her brief curiosity of her dream over, but in a moment, the memory of it rushed over her like a great wave, as quick as a lightning strike and nearly as illuminating and fierce. As she remembered it, she knew there would be no sleep for her tonight.

There was not much to recall, really. It was more a single scene that flooded her senses, but what a scene! She sat before a mirror, wearing a nightgown and combing her hair. She was humming a nonsense tune as she combed, stroke after stroke. A contented smile was on her face; she was anticipating company. The door to her room opened and she was so familiar with the sound, she did not even turn her head. She did not need to. She could see him approach in her mirror.

He walked toward her, a tender smile on his lips that she returned. Without words, he took the comb out of her hands and took up the task himself, clearing away the tangles and smoothing her tresses with a gentle touch. Too soon the task was complete and he set the comb on the vanity. Finally she turned away from the mirror to face him, allowing him to reach for her hands and pull her to her feet. A tingle in the air added a luster to his eyes as he caressed her face and drew her closer. Finally, before their lips met, she spoke a single word.

"John . . ."

Margaret buried her face in her hands. How could she have dreamed such a thing? It was not right; it was not proper. She tried to concentrate on the book in her hands, but it was to no avail. His face, his eyes, his hands insisted on dominance and she could not struggle against them. Most of all, she could not shake the disappointment that she had awoken before he was able to kiss her.

She groaned. How could she face Mr. Thornton now?

* * *

After a long and sleepless night, Margaret was finding it hard to attend to her mother while seated next to the warm fire. She had visited Bessy this morning and the exertion in combination with her lack of proper rest had exhausted her. She wanted desperately to give in to the blissful feeling of sleep, but her mother would wonder at her and she was sure she was too tired to come up with a story to explain her condition. She certainly would not tell her mother that she lost sleep another evening because of Mr. Thornton, nor would she dare confess the the exact circumstances of how he had distracted her from slumber.

She was grateful for the dimming light of evening, as it was hard for her to hide her blush as she recalled yet again his touch and tenderness. She reminded herself once more that it was just a dream, that he had not really looked at her in such a way, not to mention seen her in such a state of undress. Margaret was mortified at where her thoughts had taken her.

"You visited your Princeton friend again this morning, didn't you?" her mother said.

Rousing herself she replied, "Bessy? Yes. She was most astonished to learn that I am to dine at the Thorntons."

"Why should that astonish her?"

"I believe she was afraid I would not rise to their standards. She mentioned that they dine with 'the first folk' of Milton," she repeated with a smile.

Her mother huffed. "I do not know what puts the Thorntons so above you. You are a Beresford and have been used to being among the first families in London. Mr. Thornton himself comes to read with your father. There is no need to think we are not on an equal footing with them."

"There was no harm done by her concern, Mama. She did fear I would not have anything proper to wear, as well. I soon set her right on that score," she went on quickly before her mother could voice further dismay, "and she said she would like to come and see me after I have dressed and am ready to leave for the Thorntons. So you may both admire me in my fine feathers when the day comes."

"We do still need to decide what you will wear. Go and fetch what you have, Margaret, so I may look it over."

Glad to have an occupation, Margaret soon returned with some gowns she had been used to wearing in Harley Street and let her mother pick and fuss over what would be best. _She_ would not give any of those Milton folk reason to look down on her daughter. She was so absorbed in her decision-making, she hardly needed Margaret to respond to her.

Once again, Margaret's mind began to wander as she thought of the dinner party and how everyone would look. She was also desirous of looking well, though perhaps she was not as zealous as her mother on that subject. She fingered the material, idly wondering what Mr. Thornton would like best. The green? The white? Would he admire her? Would she please him? Would he smile at her as he had . . .

"Stop this instant!" she thought angrily. It had only been a dream. It did not matter to her how she looked to Mr. Thornton. She would not think about him. She would not wonder what he would look like on the evening of the party, what they would talk of, whether he would fix her with his familiar look.

It was a look that she was finding hard to forget even in her waking hours. She had not seen him more than twice since their reconciliation, but each time an aspect of his handsome face lingered in her thoughts for the remainder of the day. The first time had been when he was slow to leave their home after a lesson with her father, and she came upon him on her way upstairs from the kitchen. Their conversation had been brief, but he had bestowed upon her so frankly his friendly and beautiful smile that she was able to forget easily any former tension and enjoy his company. Even after he had left, his smile appeared to her throughout the day, and she wondered what else she may do to elicit such a look from him more often. The second had been another evening he had taken tea with them, and most of his conversation was with her father, but he had looked over at her so much that she felt rather than heard his invitation to join them. It was only afterward that she realized she could read the expression of his eyes, and she felt both pleased and disconcerted that she could interpret his look so easily.

She sighed in annoyed resignation. She may as well admit it. More often than she had ever imagined she would, she thought of him. And what was more, she did want his admiration. She _was _coming to think of him as a potential . . . husband? Lover? She decided on the word "suitor". It was safest. And no matter the illusion of the dream she had, he did in reality look at her in a singular way. And he did feel strongly about her, of that she was certain. And clearly her mind and heart were telling her she felt more strongly about him than she had first thought when examining her feelings.

But she had only just decided to look at him as a friend! What of her decision to not acknowledge his interest? Having more dear feelings for him complicated the matter greatly, and she was frustrated at her weakness. Before she had realized his feelings, she had accepted his attentions without thought. If she were to encourage him, how was she supposed to go about such an undertaking? Giving him advice on courting a woman had been easy enough, but what advice did she have for herself? To overtly accept and encourage his interest was something completely foreign to her. How would she do such a thing? As this thought went through her, she was hit with the realization again - she _wanted_ to encourage his attentions. She wanted to discover what such a relationship with him would be. She would think of him, she would seek his good opinion, she would even dream of him . . .

"Good evening, Mrs. Hale. Miss Hale."

She was caught completely off guard. It was as though she summoned him there by her thoughts alone. And with such thoughts as she had been harboring, she blushed hotly as she took in his smile.

"I have taken the liberty of bringing you some fruit, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Hale, presenting a small basket. Margaret had been so preoccupied by his face she had not noticed the basket in his hands. Recollecting herself and taking a breath, she also noticed her father's presence. How long had she been lost in her own thoughts? She had not even heard the front door!

Mr. Hale gladly asked Mr. Thornton to take a seat, and he hesitated only briefly to look over at Margaret to see if she approved of his staying. He was dismayed that she would not look at him, but she gave no visible sign of contradiction to her father's request, so he sat.

"I cannot stay long. My mother will be expecting me."

Mr. Hale waved a hand lazily. "Oh, no matter. We're always happy to receive you for any amount of time, aren't we?" He looked to his family to concur. His wife merely nodded, still trying to decide which gown would suit Margaret.

Margaret, however, did speak. "Yes, of course. You are always welcome, Mr. Thornton."

Was it just his imagination, or did her cheeks seem more rosy as she finally met his gaze? Was it her proximity to the fire, or was she blushing? What possible reason had he given her to blush? He was left to wonder this without any hint from her because she swiftly dropped her eyes to her hands before he could fully read her expression. She was almost behaving shyly. That was not like her. Was something amiss?

As Mr. Hale inquired of the progress of John's latest book of study, he discreetly observed Mrs. Hale; perhaps she had taken a turn for the worse and that was distracting Margaret. But though Mrs. Hale was a trifle paler than the last time he had seen her, her movements slower as she picked at some fabric, she did not seem to be in a state that would give Margaret any excess alarm. Was something else bothering her? He did his best to catch her eye as he conversed with her father, but she would obstinately do her work without looking up.

Suddenly Mrs. Hale broke in. "I have it! Margaret, I think the white silk will do nicely. Your Aunt Shaw did send that coral necklace and it will go very well."

Margaret was now forced to look up, but kept her eyes resolutely on her mother. She would not allow her eyes to stray to Mr. Thornton, afraid she would not be able to control the flush that was ever so near to betraying itself again. She had hardly been able to keep her countenance when she looked at him before. The thought of how much she admired his ice-blue eyes and strong jaw prompted an uncontrollable blush that she wanted to hide. She had averted her eyes as quickly as she could, but she was sure he noticed her red face. She only hoped her voice would not tremble and give her away as she must answer her mother.

"All right, Mama. I think it will do well if you say so."

"Let me hold it up to you for a moment."

"Oh, no, Mama, I'm sure we can do that later," she spoke quieter in futile desperation that he was not paying them any mind. But her mother only spoke louder.

"Nonsense, now stand up."

She obeyed and, unable to keep her eyes away from him any longer, she looked to see him watching the proceedings intently. She felt heat rise into her cheeks, embarrassing as the whole situation would have been under normal circumstances. But now it was excruciating. She felt as though she were parading in front of him, clamoring for his attention and admiration. She did not want him to think she would stoop to such manipulative arts.

In fact he thought no such thing, as he realized Mrs. Hale's task. He watched with interest as Margaret stood and allowed her mother to hold the dress against her. He was not able to imagine what the effect would be once Margaret wore the dress; he was more captivated by the flush creeping into her face. He found it quite becoming and was relieved to know that Margaret's composed and occasionally haughty exterior could be pierced by something other than a clumsy fall.

"Richard? Mr. Thornton? Do you not think Margaret will look beautiful in this?" Mrs. Hale asked to Margaret's infinite humiliation.

"Of course," Mr. Hale replied easily. "But then our Margaret is always so pretty."

If only he could express such a compliment with so much enthusiasm! But he did take the opportunity to gaze at her more attentively before answering. "Undoubtedly, Mrs. Hale, she will be most lovely." He felt safe saying that much, as Mrs. Hale had asked for just such a confirmation, and his mild manner would certainly not make Margaret any more uncomfortable than she clearly already was.

Mrs. Hale took the dress away and sat again, ringing for Dixon, but Margaret, having lifted her eyes after his comment, remained standing for a moment, offering him a small and secret smile. He readily returned it, and there was no telling how long a moment it was that they held each other's gaze, but he knew that glow in her eyes as she looked at him so shyly. He had seen a glimpse of it before, that day he had been sure he had destroyed his chances, a glimpse of feeling that strengthened his hope and deepened his attachment to her. And here she offered it again, that quiet look that told him she might have some affection for him. He could enjoy and bask in that look for eternity.

But it was only for a moment. She recollected that they were not alone and turned away from him again, but with such an air of apprehension that he now hit upon a reason for her shy demeanor this evening. Perhaps he was mistaken, but he would not worry about that now. He found reason to hope, and he would hope deep within himself that the explanation for her behavior was him. That look she bestowed stirred his belief that she could be affected by him, but he could only describe her anxiety as a result of her own recognition of it, her own realization that she shared his feelings and was unsure of how to proceed. It may be purely speculation he grasped at in his interpretation of her, but he would not stop his heart from leaping.

He did not stay for long, but during the remainder of his visit, they stole glances at each other, soft smiles gracing their expressions. Unfortunately, neither was able to catch the other in the act, so there was not another look truly shared between them. But after his departure, both looked forward to the next time they would have an opportunity.

* * *

**A/N: **Your reviews and comments have been sooooo lovely and kind, and I have been blown away by how many of you are loving how gradually I'm moving their relationship along, so I was really nervous about posting this chapter, since it gives the relationship a pretty big boost in a short amount of time. I hope you don't mind the game-changer! And I hope it doesn't seem too rushed. But I also think that Margaret _would_ need a wake-up call (metaphorical or not) to change how she's conducting herself and to move from friendship to . . . _beyond_ friendship, no matter if it came now or much later. So be prepared; there's going to be some faster-moving relationship stuff in the next few chapters, because I get impatient if I don't get enough longing looks or hints at smoochiness - plus I do have a specific outline to follow. This is where my 21st-century sensibilities are going to come into play. I hope it works for you! (plus, today's my 30th birthday, so no one's allowed to say something negative on such a day . . . right?)


	10. A Dinner Party

Margaret would not see Mr. Thornton again until the evening of the dinner party. She was occupied with her mother and he with the mill, so involved with his business that he had been obliged to cancel his lessons with her father. But somehow the week passed, and she was soon standing before her mother, ready for inspection as Dixon helped with any finishing touches.

"Oh, Margaret," her mother said from her chair, from which she was feeling too tired to rise this evening, "how I should like to go with you, taking you to an assembly as my mother did for me."

Margaret shared this wish, but she was reluctant in her filial duty of replying, "I can stay at home if you wish, Mama." She was nervous about appearing out in public among so many strangers, but she also glowed inwardly in anticipation. Tonight she would see Mr. Thornton, and she was more eager to be in his company than she cared to admit out loud. Every day Margaret was learning the truth that absence makes the heart grow fonder. He had not entered her sleep again, but that had not stopped her daydreams. She would imagine to herself that he would overtake her in the market again, or that they would meet on some solitary walk, that he would offer her his arm and they would lose their way in conversation. The sound of knocking at the front door always sparked some hope in her that he would suddenly appear. She told herself that such imaginings were silly, but she would not deny him entrance to her thoughts. Each thought and fancy softened his memory, accentuated his smile, and increased Margaret's admiration of him.

"Nonsense, darling! I would not have you miss such an occasion simply to spend it on a humdrum evening at home. You will enjoy yourself, I'm sure."

Margaret was inclined to agree with her, but she would not say so. She preferred to keep her secret close. She suspected her mother would not approve of her interest in Mr. Thornton, but that suspicion was not what stopped her from confessing her increasing attachment. Rather, she wanted to have something entirely her own, a private treasure she could return to in times of solitude or sorrow, times which increased daily as her mother grew weaker and her fate was so uncertain. And the memory of his kindness and earnest eyes brought her such reassurance and comfort, she found herself better able to bear the sight of her mother's pain when she thought of him.

"Will your factory friend be here to see you dressed?"

"She was so ill the last time I saw her I never thought to ask." Bessy and her mother. Who else dear to her was she fated to lose? The thought sobered her.

"Well, my dear, you do look lovely. Aunt Shaw's coral gives you just the right touch of color."

Margaret was grateful for her mother's approving words when they reached the Thornton home. She and her father were punctual to the time dictated, but they were the first and only guests for some time, with only Mrs. and Miss Thornton for company. In Margaret's mind, Dixon had much to learn from Mrs. Thornton on being formidable. Every subject begun was brought to a quick end by her terseness, and Margaret felt it hard to withstand her stern glare. She was more than a little awkward as they attempted conversation, continually rebuffed, awaiting the arrival of other guests.

Her discomfort eased and all but evaporated when Mr. Thornton entered the room. She straightened and watched him closely as he approached, a cordial and cheerful look in his eye. Her chest felt constricted as he greeted her father, waiting for the moment she could speak and greet him herself. Her slight shift of posture did not escape the notice of his mother, nor did the deepening of his smile when he turned to her to shake her hand.

Their words were commonplace as he welcomed her, but neither would have been able to recall the words spoken, even if the other had spouted a sonnet, not while their hands met. Both were very conscious that it was the first time they had done so, and both were slow to release their hands from the clasp. Even after he let go, she could feel the touch of his warm skin burnt into her memory. Though she turned to speak with Fanny, she did not neglect to spare a look or two his way, noting to herself how well he looked, an easy manner becoming his handsome face.

More guests were arriving and Mr. Thornton had to now divide his attention among them, but he rarely lost sight of her. Even when he did, he was so aware of her presence, he would have been able to name exactly where she was and what she was doing, if necessary. It was plain to see that his prediction to Mrs. Hale that Margaret would be "most lovely" was far below the mark. She was nothing short of glorious. He had never seen her so attired before and could not but think such finery was intended for her always. Across the room their eyes met, and she gifted him with a smile that illuminated her entire being. He was well and truly caught.

He did not find an opportunity to speak with her again before dinner, and as another gentleman escorted her to table and much of the talk during dinner required his opinion, he was prevented from even the barest civilities. Though she also wished it were otherwise, she enjoyed the chance to observe him. As a dispute was referred to him to resolve, she had never seen him to so much advantage; he spoke firmly and wisely, effectively settling the question without opposition. Often he had had an air of defense about him when he visited her home, which she could not blame him for now, knowing her propensity to embroil him in argument. Here, there was no struggle on his part for respect. He had it, and his knowledge of it was reflected by the clear quietness of his voice and his simple, modest manner. She quite liked this side of him.

She was most bored with the other ladies after dinner. She had never enjoyed this custom to separate the sexes, as the ladies' interests were rather dull. It seemed to be as much the case in Milton as in London, and she felt threatened with fatigue until the gentlemen came. She smiled fondly to see her father engrossed in conversation with Mr. Horsfall, glad to know he was enjoying himself. Her attention on him had momentarily caused her to lose sight of Mr. Thornton, so she was moderately startled when he came up behind her and spoke.

"How are you finding your time here, Miss Hale?" he asked, amused by her small jump. He had hoped he would be able to discompose her. She faced him with an exasperated smirk.

"I _was_ finding myself rather well, until you made me lose my breath." He smiled at his success and she was suddenly mindful of how close he stood to her. He was taller than most men, so as he bent toward her to avoid being jarred by a passing guest, he seemed to tower over her. She felt enveloped by him and considerably liked the feeling.

"To be perfectly honest, I was more than ready for you men to make an appearance. The style and substance of the ladies' talk is wearying to me, and I am in great need of refreshment."

"And what sort of refreshment do you require?"

"Any subject not having to do with lace, pins, or petticoats. I beg you, no petticoats."

He laughed as he replied, "I believe you are safe from such subjects with me. I am most ignorant of them."

"Tell me, are you acquainted at all with the man Mr. Horsfall spoke about – Mr. Morison?"

"I know of him, from Mr. Horsfall's account. Why?"

"It seemed from Mr. Horsfall's words that Mr. Morison would be against you in the discussion you were having. He seemed to also imply that Mr. Morison was not a gentleman."

"Having no personal knowledge of him, I do not know if I can judge correctly, but I do believe from all Mr. Horsfall has told me of him that he is no true man."

The phrase sounded familiar to Margaret. "I believe you have used the term 'true man' before. Is that the same to you as a gentleman?"

"I would say it is a great deal more. A man is to me a higher and completer being than a gentleman. The term 'gentleman' seems to describe a person merely in relation to others. But a man is considered in relation to himself – to life – to time – to eternity. It is his honorable actions without regard to the approval or disapproval of others that make him a man, even if he is as lonely as a castaway or a saint. I am weary of the word 'gentleman' and how it has usurped the inherent dignity of 'man.' Its meaning has become distorted and exaggerated, while the term 'man' or 'manly,' being unacknowledged, will always have its power and nobility in simplicity."

She had never thought about the juxtaposition and subsequent difference between the two terms, but his argument and defense was compelling. She was still immersed in thought when he was called away by another manufacturer.

She kept a discreet and proper distance from them, but her curiosity was aroused by the intense gravity on Mr. Thornton's face as the other man remonstrated with him. Inconspicuously, she drew close enough to hear their words.

"You've left word at the barracks?" his companion demanded.

"That has been done."

"You have taken other precautions? Hiding their arrival, keeping them from sight?"

"All those arrangements have been made." He was rather short with the man and she thought he now looked anxious and weighted with care. Suspicion as to their discussion arose within her that was confirmed by the other man's words.

"If they find out you're bringing in Irish workers, there is nothing they will not stop at to –"

"I take the risk. You need not join in it." He spoke firmly. "I can protect myself from violence, and I will certainly protect all others who come to me for work."

"Well, on your own head be it."

He began to walk away, frustration evident on his contracted brow, but he did not go far before seeing Margaret. He schooled his features and stepped closer, fully in the knowledge that she had heard.

"Irish workers?" she asked, her disapproval manifest.

"Yes," he said quietly. "They will come over in a few days."

She was so disappointed in him. He had expressed confidence in her ability to find a reasonable solution, and yet had not bothered to wait before making it impossible for the strikers to return to work. How would they feel toward him now? She was afraid to know, and dismayed that he would take such action that would only agitate the strikers.

"I don't understand," she spoke reprovingly, casting her eyes to the floor.

"Miss Hale, I told you before, I have my duty to the mill," he kept his voice low. "The strike has gone on too long and you know I am unable to give in to their demands. If the machines do not start running again, what do you think will become of the mill?"

She finally looked him in the eye.

"It will go under. I cannot stop that from happening."

"I thought you would wait, that I could do something to ease the conflict." She was vulnerable in her confession, knowing how she sounded, putting herself forth as some kind of savior.

"Miss Hale, I still have every confidence in you," he said with sincerity, "but time marches on and is a cruel master to those who do nothing. I simply could not wait."

How he longed to touch her, assure her that her opinion was of great value to him. He was on the brink of holding his hand out to her arm before he remembered they were in company and would soon attract unwanted attention if he showed too much. He would not do something thoughtless and involve her in gossip and slander. But he hated the sorrowful frown on her lips and yearned to wipe it away.

"I am sorry," he offered dully, distressed that he was once again the cause of her unhappiness.

She looked at him head on. "I know you are, Mr. Thornton. I am disappointed, but I know you must do your duty. I know if there had been time, you would have listened to me."

"I still will, Miss Hale. Please do not think that I wilfully ignore you. I do desire your opinion and thoughts. Truly."

She nodded, granting his assurances, but soon moved away. How could she face him? She, who had arrogantly set herself up as the one who could save him, save them all? Of course he had to keep the mill going, and of course he was going to do whatever it took to make that happen. She had not been able to miraculously bridge understanding within a matter of a few short weeks, and she was frustrated and disappointed that she had thought she could. Any idea she had to offer would take far more time to have any effect, and that was time Mr. Thornton did not have. Not to mention her attention to her mother distracted her from giving the strike any deep thought. She was ashamed of herself.

Mr. Thornton, meanwhile, blamed himself. She had expressed a wish to help him, and what had he done to acknowledge it? He had repaid her interest with his usual business principles of logic and reason. At least she did him the justice of understanding those reasons, but he hated her disappointment, and was sorry to think they might part on unhappy terms this evening. He must do something to awaken a smile in her, but he did not know what.

Soon enough he saw Mr. Hale and Margaret make their goodbyes, first to his mother, then his sister. He walked over to them, hoping to come up with something kind that would leave him on better terms with her. Nothing came, and their farewell was civil and brief. He cursed inwardly as they left the room until Mr. Horsfall called Mr. Hale back in, wanting to make one last point on their previous topic of conversation. Mr. Hale reentered, but Margaret did not. Mr. Thornton's hesitation lasted a bare moment; he seized his chance and slipped out of the room and down the stairs after her.

She was taking her shawl from the table when she heard his voice. "May I help you, Miss Hale?" His voice was pleading and soft, and when she turned and saw the fervent look in his eye, she was immediately helpless before him. It was only now that she realized how much she wanted to be alone with him, away from prying eyes and distracting company, and how she had missed the piercing expression of his look. She silently handed him the shawl and he stepped around her slowly to place it across her shoulders.

His fingers grazed her skin, awakening sparks within her at each touch. Her breath came quick and strong as he stood before her, taking her hand again but more tenderly, more intimately. She was certain he could hear her heart beat; there was no other sound, no other person, nowhere in the wide world. He held her in his captivating gaze, and for the first time, no stray thought entered her mind to force her to turn away. She could not turn away from him, not while his eyes were so intense and tender all at once. That aching and pleasurable pressure on her chest threatened to encase her, and she did not know how to relieve it. If only he would say something; she was afraid to speak. He moved closer, his hand reached to her face, she allowed herself a breath . . .

"I'm sorry, Margaret, for keeping you waiting."

Her father was descending the stairs. They broke apart, warmth and desire quickly replaced by cold and propriety. Mr. Hale once more expressed his thanks and said goodbye to Mr. Thornton, but Margaret could not bring herself to repeat his compliments, unnerved as she was at the interrupted spell Mr. Thornton had cast over her. As she walked on with her father, though, she looked back over her shoulder to see him still at the door, still looking at her.

He had meant to say something, anything really, to make her smile, but all language left his head as he helped her with her shawl and touched her soft skin. For once he blessed his lack of eloquence, as her look and manner were all the words he needed.

Margaret did manage to carry on conversation with her father, but once again the night hid her expression, as smile after unbidden smile graced her lips. She would not forget Mr. Thornton's tenderness and touch, not now that she had truly and really experienced it. It was easy for her to cast aside her earlier feelings regarding the Irish workers in the memory of the darkened stairwell. Yes, this would be a night to remember.

They entered the house to Dixon's white and trembling face. "Oh, master! Oh, Miss Margaret! Thank God you are come! Dr. Donaldson is here. She's better now, but I thought she'd have died an hour ago."

In an instant, Margaret forgot everything.

* * *

**A/N: **I know, I know. Another author note. I've already stated that I'm borrowing dialogue from the book, and this is one of the times that it's culled pretty heavily. John's speech about gentlemen and "true men" is one of my favorite passages, and there was no way I was going to keep it out. It's a great conversation between them, anyway, because it's one of the few times they speak in the book without arguing, but I also love the idea about a "true man". I added some of my own little thoughts to his speech, but even in its original form, it's great and thought-provoking. Go. Read it (the real thing, not what i wrote). Ponder. It's wonderful.


	11. Impulsive

On the surface, the Hale home was quiet and undisturbed for two or three days. But within its walls, despair and sadness invaded the residents. After Mrs. Hale's attack, there was no more concealment, and Mr. Hale trembled and wept in the knowledge that soon he would lose his wife. His brief accusations of cruelty against his daughter were over, and he refused to leave his wife's side that first night without great argument and persuasion from Margaret and the doctor. There was no use in all of them waiting up with her, after all, but it took many hours for him to allow sleep to overtake him.

Margaret did her best to relieve her father of additional suffering, but he refused to be consoled. She was not married; she would not understand what it was to him to lose his life's companion. Even after the dark night was over and Mrs. Hale awoke without any knowledge of what had occurred, Mr. Hale was bent and broken.

Mrs. Hale's recovery from her attack was significant; the doctor allowed her to leave her room the next day. But there was no lessening of her pallor and no rest for her fidgety discomfort wherever she sat. Margaret and Dixon did their utmost to attend to her and make her comfortable, but to no avail. Mr. Hale would simply keep his distance, closer proximity too much for him to bear just yet unless she was sleeping.

Margaret was compelled to take on some added duties while her father was in such a low state. He would not take in any of his pupils during his first grief, but he did not have the strength to write to them himself. Margaret wrote hurried notes for him, trusting them to Martha to post. She had hesitated a long while over Mr. Thornton's note, unsure of how much to reveal. In the end, she only included a vague allusion to the reason for cancelling the lesson, hoping that he would do her justice with his sympathy.

He validated her hope almost immediately, as a note arrived that evening from Marlborough Mills addressed to Mr. Hale. Margaret took it up with a lightening of her heart to deliver to her father. Mr. Hale hardly attended to the note, taking it from her with a listless hand. His comments did little to satisfy her curiosity. "Very kind of him, very kind. He is a discerning man to know of our troubles. Most kind of him." He set the note aside with a sigh, not noticing his daughter take and pocket it.

She escaped to her room, opening the letter, and read quickly. Mr. Thornton did not express himself in many words, but he offered his sympathy and his services so delicately and thoughtfully that she almost felt his comforting hand extended to her. She regretted that he would not come to the house, knowing what cheer he would give her father, but there was nothing to be done for it. She folded the paper, a slight balm in her soul, and Mr. Hale never saw the note again.

It became clear after a few days that Mrs. Hale was not receiving any refreshment from her efforts at sleep. She was restless and feverish, and Margaret had to consult with the doctor on how to relieve her discomfort in any way.

"Perhaps a water-bed might do her some good. She will continue to improve a little in the next couple of days, but I should like her to have one. Mrs. Thornton has one, I know, but I cannot go there myself today. Can you spare the time to go to Marlborough Street and ask her?"

"Of course." She would do much to help her mother, so to the Thorntons she would go.

* * *

The journey to Marlborough Street was unvaried as usual until the last half-mile or so. Margaret found herself surrounded by a muttering crowd, but she was too preoccupied with her task to pay heed to the fearful threats being spoken or the angry faces of those she passed. The voices grew louder after she had left the mass of people, but so many were speaking that even had she been paying attention, she would not have been able to understand their words. As she approached the mill gate, however, and knocked, the roar lessened to an ominous silence. The porter would not open the door wide enough to admit her at first and then hastily bolted it behind her once he did.

"Those folk are all coming here, I reckon," he said, a tremble to his voice.

"I don't know. Marlborough Street itself seemed quite empty."

He hurried her across the yard and to the house door without another word. And now, as the door opened to her, she could hear the roar rise up again, clamoring and frightening.

Fanny met her first in the drawing room, apologizing for her mother's delay. "My brother has imported hands from Ireland, and it has irritated the strikers excessively." Now Margaret understood what the agitated crowd meant. So her worst fears of their anger toward him were realized! "And now the poor Irish are frightened so by them and their threats that they daren't move and we daren't let them out! They're huddled in the top room of the mill to keep them safe from those brutes."

"Poor wretches," Margaret murmured, her compassion going out to these innocent workers who did not deserve such terror.

Mrs. Thornton came in, distracted and stern, and Margaret was sorry to trouble her at such a time with her request. She made it, however, and Mrs. Thornton assured her that the water-bed would be sent as soon as possible.

"I would send it with you right now if I could, Miss Hale, but –" The sound of the roar finally pierced the walls of the house, a sound that Mrs. Thornton had not forgotten to listen for while Margaret spoke. The sudden nearness of the noise, just outside the wall, halted her in her speech, and she exclaimed, "They're at the gates! Call John, Fanny! Call him in! They're at the gates!"

Margaret drew to the window overlooking the yard amidst the panic, only dimly aware of Fanny's scream, the servants' scattering, and Mrs. Thornton's attempts to keep them all in order. She watched as the gate quivered, beaten and battered on the opposite side by the deafening crowd she could not see. Dread and fascination fixed her there and Mrs. Thornton soon joined her. Together they saw Mr. Thornton emerge from the mill, his alert step and anxious face distracted by the din as he locked the factory door. Through the cracks in the gate, the rioters saw him and only cried aloud the more terrible. He strode quickly to the house door, only turning once to look back before he entered the house and barred the door behind him.

Margaret had not left the window, though she could hear him bound up the stairs, wondering if the gates would give way to the thunderous pounding, no longer fearful of the violence being exhibited, but painfully sensitive to what drove the workers to their madness. She did not see his shock on beholding her there, but she was soon made aware of him as he came closer to her and claimed her attention.

"I'm sorry that you have visited us at this unfortunate moment, Miss Hale. I fear you must partake in whatever risk we have to bear." He could not rejoice in her presence, as dangerous as it was for all of them, and no hint of tremor was in his voice as he spoke. His tone strengthened and became more commanding as he turned to his mother. "Hadn't you better go to the back room, Mother? Take Fanny and keep the servants there."

Mrs. Thornton was ready to stand her ground and insist on staying with him when a wrench of iron diverted their attention and they rushed to the window once more to watch the gates fall under the powerful weight of the crowd. They were pouring into the yard, screaming and tramping. It was too much for Fanny, who took a step toward her mother before falling faint into her arms. Mrs. Thornton had no choice but to carry her away.

Margaret would still not move from her perch, fearing for the safety of the Irish and sorry for the pitiful rioters who were driven so wild with hunger and privation. Mr. Thornton asked her to come away, but she did not hear him as she saw . . .

"Boucher! I recognize him. He is fighting to get to the front."

He came to the window at her exclamation, afraid she might become overwrought at the violence being perpetrated by people she knew. His appearance at the window caused the crowd to set up an animal yell which dismayed even him, inhuman as it sounded. But he was determined to remain strong and firm.

"Let them yell. Keep up your courage for a few minutes, Miss Hale."

"I'm not afraid! But can you do nothing to pacify them, to talk reasonably with them?"

"The soldiers will be here soon, and that will bring them to reason."

"Reason?" she cried. "What kind of reason?" She looked to him to only see a stern determination in his eyes. She knew what kind of reason he meant, what would be done to those crazed men if the soldiers came.

"By heaven, they've turned to the mill door!" He twisted to the window at the sight, betraying concern and fear for the Irish workers who were trapped above. It emboldened Margaret to see his reaction, and, angry at his having called the soldiers, she faced him with impassioned defiance.

"Mr. Thornton, go down this instant," she ordered, now beginning to quake. "Go down and face them like a man. Save these poor strangers. Speak to your workmen as if they were human beings. Don't let them be cut down by the soldiers. Go speak to them, man to man, and save your innocent Irishmen."

As she pleaded with him, he looked at her in stunned wonder. Surely she did not know what she was asking of him, what risk she was daring him to take. Did she not see these men and what they were capable of? But he would not be challenged as though he lacked courage. He would not deny her, no matter the harm it may do.

"Very well. If you will please follow me and lock the door behind me in order to keep yourself and the others safe," he agreed coolly. His composed response to her as he walked out of the room stilled her passion, and her mind only just began to comprehend what she had asked him to do, fear taking hold of her once more, but now for him.

He quickly made his way down the stairs, and she struggled to match his pace. He was to the door by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, the thought becoming more clear to her that it was not safe for him outside. She was stricken at the idea that he could be harmed, and before he could open the door, she impulsively reached out a hand. "Mr. Thornton, please take care."

She had managed to take hold of his arm, arresting his movements, and he turned to face her with a question in his eyes. Foolish as her request might be, there was no denying the sudden fear in her eyes, and the plea written in her gesture. It was too much for him in such a time of dread, and he would not control the impetuous notion that came into his mind.

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, and she heard him mutter, "I do not know what may happen," and swiftly he had drawn her close, a hand at her waist, another on her cheek. She was overcome at his unexpected nearness, and she was unable to calm the rapid rise and fall of her chest as he breathed her name against her mouth. She could hear the question in his whisper, the hesitation giving her the chance to push him away if she wished. His breath was tantalizing on her lips, and she closed her eyes, wordlessly granting him permission.

The next sensation she felt was his lips on hers, warm, tender, and adoring. A thrill ran through her, and she suddenly desired to draw him close, to soothe her own longing at his touch. But it was too brief and ended before she could fully respond; he had not forgotten what was outside the door, and he was soon gone, leaving her alone and dazed.


	12. A Blow and its Consequences

Margaret rushed back up the stairs in order to reach the window as quickly as she could. The abrupt exit of Mr. Thornton brought her to herself almost immediately, and she could not remain ignorant of what was happening in the yard. From her vantage point, she could see little of him as he faced the angry mob. Sure she would not be able to have a better view of him, she became watchful of the faces shouting and raging at him.

What had she sent him into? If only he would speak, perhaps he would be safe. Perhaps he could quell their anger, if only briefly. Long enough for them to realize that their riotous actions were sinful and wrong, that to use violence would bring shame upon themselves and their cause. They could not see that now, stirred to ferocity by the discovery that others had come to take their place and steal their bread. But if he spoke to them, how much savagery might yet be prevented!

There was a momentary hush, but she did not know if it was because Mr. Thornton was, in fact, talking; she could not hear. But if he had spoken, it had been to no avail, for they erupted once more, and she was truly frightened for him. Her eyes still on the rioters, she saw a group of young men bend to the ground, arming themselves with shoes and stones. In a panic, she was at the door before she knew it, unbarring and throwing it open. Her only thought was to shield him from the danger. She would not allow him to be harmed.

"Stop! Do not use violence!" she cried. "He is one man and you are many." Her sudden appearance quieted most of them as they stared in shock at the woman who had thrown herself between them and the object of their fury. He was also shocked by her presence, temporarily stunned into paralyzed fear until she began to speak again.

"Go. Go in peace. The soldiers are coming. You shall have relief from your complaints."

By this time he had moved again, shifting to the side so as not to be hidden by her, knowing that any blow aimed for him would first reach her. As he moved into view, one asked from the crowd in a menacing threat, "Will you send the Irish packing?"

"Never!" was all his reply. He would do nothing under influence of force. It was enough to bring the storm again, their hootings and threatenings filling the air. Margaret still watched the boys, who seemed ready to aim their arsenal afresh. Without hesitation she threw her arms around him, hoping and praying by virtue of her sex they would both be protected.

He tried to heave her off, saying, "Go inside. This is no place for you." But she would cling to him, holding him close to her as he had done only moments before. But there was no remembrance of that moment as a clog whizzed past them. The reckless passion of the boys had gone too far for them to stop their maddened violence. Margaret turned her head to make another plea when a stone came hurtling toward them, nearly true to its initial aim. She was struck, and went limp in his arms by the blow.

She did not immediately fall faint. She felt Mr. Thornton set her down on the step and was sure he was shouting at the now-silent crowd. She was dimly aware of their quiet departure as he returned to her side. Her vision began to cloud as he reached a hand to her bloodied temple. She thought she heard a voice painfully crying her name. And then there was nothing but blackness.

* * *

"Did all the servants see?"

"We had a good view of it from the right-hand window. Sarah saw it first and cried out that Miss Hale was clinging to the master."

"I know she cares for my brother, and I daresay she'd give her eyes if he'd marry her, but I cannot believe she would be so bold."

Margaret awoke to the quiet voices above her, a sharp pain at her right temple, and a sense of dizziness throughout her person. Her eyelids fluttered as she came to, alerting Fanny and the servant, and they immediately ceased their gossip and spoke to her, inquiring after her health and informing her that Mrs. Thornton had gone for a doctor.

Margaret tried to rise as Mrs. Thornton entered the room with Mr. Lowe. Mrs. Thornton could not hide her relief that Margaret was awake and instructed her to rest quietly.

"I am better now," Margaret said, wanting to hide the cut, but Mr. Lowe pushed her hair back to tend to the wound before she could use it as a cover. Once it was bound, she quickly smoothed the hair over it. "I must go home. My mother will not see it, will she? It is hidden?"

"No one could tell," he assured her.

"But you are not fit to go," Mrs. Thornton protested. "You must not." She was responsible for this girl's welfare while she was in her home, and she would not allow any unnecessary risks.

"Yes, I must. My mother must not be alarmed by my absence. If they should hear –" She could not finish the thought, fearing her parents' knowledge of what had occurred here. What would that do to her mother? Again she insisted on leaving and, seeing she would not be persuaded, Mr. Lowe offered to help her home. Mrs. Thornton reluctantly submitted to Margaret's wish, her respect for Margaret's strength tempered by annoyance at her obstinacy.

Margaret soon reached home, having made sure to part with Mr. Lowe before coming to her street. She would take no chance of her parents seeing how she arrived at home. She entered the house silently and slowly made her way into the drawing room where they both sat. She was pale and drawn, and she took some time to speak.

"Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, Mama."

"How tired you look, Margaret," her mother said with some anxiety. "Is it very hot?"

Grasping at the excuse, she said, "Yes, very hot and very dusty." She felt her body tremble and knew she must escape before she fell to the floor. "I believe I will go up to bed now." Haltingly she dragged herself up the stairs, longing for solitude, for her mind was fit to burst. She must give way to the multitude of thoughts clamoring for attention, but she would not until she reached her room. Sinking onto the bed, her thoughts and feelings tumbled over her and she broke into sobs.

* * *

After he laid Margaret on the couch, John was not allowed to linger very long. He had many duties to attend to in the wake of the rioters' departure, and he must take care of them now that all was momentarily safe. Before calling his mother, though, he knelt at Margaret's side, listening for her shallow breath and miserable that she had come to harm. In his first paroxysm of grief as he had carried her in the house, he had cried out her name, simultaneously speaking to himself and to her. "Margaret – my Margaret! no one can tell what you are to me. You are the only woman I ever loved!"

It was the first time he had ever thought or spoken of the word "love," but as it broke forth from him, he knew it was the only word that truly conveyed the depth of his emotions. He had sought to win her, but had never once admitted to that simple and profound feeling. He loved her. And yet she lay before him as a corpse. He loved her, and she had been gravely injured in the cause of his protection. He loved her, and yet he had to leave her behind and attend to the matters at hand. He wished desperately to remain at her side, to be there when she awoke, but as his mother entered the room, he had to pretend it was easy to leave Margaret to her care.

He tried not to think about her as he spoke to the police and settled affairs for the Irish. He had to keep a clear and level head as other masters arrived to congratulate him on his triumph, of having stood strong while the "ungrateful hoodlums" broke their own strike. But even as he dealt with detail after painstaking detail, the thought of her was never far from his mind.

He was delayed entering the house, it being very late. But he still had hope that she would be there, the blow that she received being so severe. But only his mother and sister were there to greet him.

"Where is Miss Hale?" he asked with trepidation.

"She has gone home," was the simple reply.

"That is impossible."

"She was a great deal better," his mother fiercely declared. "She said she was, and Mr. Lowe said she was. He saw her home in a cab, so I'm sure she reached home safely."

"Thank you, Mother. It could not have been easy for you to go to such trouble during such a trying day."

She would not accept his thanks, but scornfully went on. By now she had heard the talk of the servants and was not inclined to think well of Miss Hale and the arts she employed to entrap her son. "She's such a reckless young woman."

"Reckless? Not many girls would have taken the blows on themselves that were meant for me."

"A girl in love will do a good deal," she said quietly.

He visibly staggered at her words, but would not reply. After his own reckless behavior today, he could not confess to his mother all he felt and desired. He needed to seek out Margaret first. He longed to see her, but it was too late now to go to Crampton. He would have to wait until morning. How long this night would be.

And yet a part of him was grateful for the time he was given, to examine his and her behavior and decide what course of action to take. Once alone, he was finally able to transport himself back to that blessed moment when he held her tenderly in his arms, when she gave her willing lips to him. He had never felt a sensation more powerful, made more glorious in contrast to the turmoil outside. It had been a great liberty, and his reason told him that he should never have done it. Propriety condemned him and demanded only one solution to restore honor, a solution that he would be most glad to adopt. But he cared nothing for what propriety required; he only cared for what his heart urged him to do. What did it matter that honor and his heart's wish coincided?

He was heartened in the knowledge that not only had she allowed him to kiss her, although clearly shocked by his impulsive deed, but she had welcomed it. And heaven knew she had been extremely encouraging recently. Perhaps his suit would not be completely rejected. As convinced as he was that her actions in the yard were motivated more by a sense of justice than any particular feeling for him, he found hope in the stray comment of his mother's. Perhaps she loved him, too. Perhaps she would accept him with a heart as much belonging to him as his belonged to her.

Yes, he would apologize for the liberty he had taken, but he would hope she regretted it as little as he. He would hope for her acceptance. He would hope for her love.

* * *

Margaret's feelings would not settle within her. One moment she would feel leaping happiness; the next, burning shame. One moment, ecstasy; another, anger. She hated the conflict she was experiencing with herself and only sought an escape. Her tears of exhaustion and toil were over, and now she must sort herself out.

She cast her mind to the events of the day, namely once the rioters appeared at the Marlborough gate. She was angry at Mr. Thornton as he so coolly awaited the soldiers, not seeming to care for the harm that would befall the pitiful workers. And there she beheld it again – the cold master who would not care or change to make life any better for them. How could he be so unfeeling? And how could she allow him into her heart when he had clearly deceived her? He did not care for her to fix anything in the way he ran his business; he had misled her with fine words about faith and confidence, and then proved himself to be stern and unyielding when the occasion had called for his compassion. He had no heart.

Tears returned to her eyes as her own heart contradicted her thoughts. Of course John Thornton had a heart. A tender, passionate heart that he offered her in every look and touch. Had she not felt the influence of his heart this afternoon? She felt once more his lips and his hands, and thrilled at the recollection. He had been impetuous and passionate, but he had not forced himself upon her. She was sure that if she had denied him, he would have accepted it. But she had not denied him; even now she craved the experience, knowing a taste of what desire was and to have it realized. And he had been so gentle, so overwhelming. She wanted him over and over again, to look at her, to hold her, to kiss her. Could she love this man? She almost thought she could. And that man would be able to justify his other actions this day.

But again her frustration surfaced. He was two men again! How could she feel anything for him? But how could she feel nothing for him? She yearned for his presence, but she was afraid to see him. What would he think of her after today?

Her cheeks burned as she recalled the words that Fanny and her servant exchanged over her prostrate body. While their kiss was a secret all their own, how many countless people had seen her throw her arms around him in the factory yard? The suggestion of her wantonness and insolence was clear in their words. Others would be sure to follow. They would speculate on her, cast aspersions on her character, and be assured within themselves that she had manipulated events to ensure a proposal. Did he believe that of her? Did he believe that she would stoop to such tricks? Did he follow society's propensity to misinterpret and slander a woman's motivation and actions? She supposed that if he made her an offer, she would have her answer. But she would not accept a man simply to save her reputation, no matter the feelings she had for him.

And those feelings, at times so cherished and heavenly, were now distorted and twisted. She half-began to believe in her own depravity, too quickly allowing Fanny's intimations. She wanted to believe he would trust in her honor, that any offer he made her would be from his own heart. She had not long before trusted that one day he would do so. But no longer. Even without the pollution of her feelings by Fanny's thoughtless words, could she accept him when there was a part of him she still could not fathom? She had already made steps in understanding him as a master, and a good one at that. Did she need further clarification in order to forget her anger at his conduct toward the rioters? What explanation could he give _now_ in order to reconcile the two men she saw in him? She desperately wanted his justification; she wanted to trust in his character in every part of his life. And she wanted to forget those poisoned words of Fanny's that tainted her honorable and sincere feelings.

It would be another night without rest.


	13. His Proposal

The morning was passing quickly enough. Margaret sat at her work in her mother's room as Mrs. Hale slept. Though she had received little rest herself the night before, she was glad to sit with her. After the chaos and misery of the previous day, Margaret had determined to keep her mind occupied. She would attend to her mother once she awoke, and then would visit Bessy in the afternoon.

She would _not_ think of John Thornton until he was before her face, and who knew when that would be? But the effort to dispel him from her mind only served to anchor him there more firmly. From time to time a hot flush spread over her face. Her only relief was that her mother did not see it. But she would be all right, as long as she did not have to see him.

Dixon softly entered the room and beckoned to Margaret to join her in the hall. Margaret rose as quietly as she could, and when the door was closed behind her, Dixon made free to speak. "Mr. Thornton is downstairs in the study, Miss. He asked to see you."

Margaret paled. "He asked for me? Not for papa?"

"No, Miss, for you. And master has gone out."

Dismayed at his presence in her home, she bemoaned her ability to summon him by thought alone. However, she had to resign herself to seeing him. "Thank you, Dixon. I will go down." But her step was slow and hesitant. All of her conflicting thoughts came rushing in upon her, and she was afraid of his purpose in coming. She stopped before the door, taking deep breaths and ordering herself to be composed and strong before him.

As she entered the study, her resolve nearly shattered. His back was to her and he had not remarked her coming, quiet as it had been. But to be so close to him, watching him look out the window, her heart ached with longing and sorrow. How could she possibly speak to him in a rational manner when he was able to discompose her with only his back? He must have sensed her entrance, because he turned from the window, his expression softening on seeing her. His stiff frame relaxed to a small degree, and she wondered she had not noticed that he was tense. He did not smile, but fixed her with his intent stare that made her weak in the knees, the suppressed passion unmistakable in his eyes. He seemed about to speak, but he was not able to find even words of greeting. And she could not speak for the weight on her chest as she drank in the sight of him. Would she be able to control the urge she felt to launch herself into his arms?

Finally he moved toward her, and the thought that he would repeat his actions of yesterday made her heart race and her breath quicken. A knot of excitement and anxiety took hold of her stomach as he drew closer; she was ready for his embrace. Indeed he seemed intent on just such behavior for a moment, but he walked past her to shut the door. He was so near and she was overwhelmed, finding it difficult to recall anything she had determined last night to say to him.

He had been sorely tempted to hold her to him. Before she came in the room, he imagined how it might be, how he would declare his love and she would nestle herself in his arms. He imagined claiming her lips in a kiss that would not be infuriatingly brief and distracted by impending danger, but lingering and sweet. He felt her presence rather than heard her, and he could only stare in rapture at the sight of her, barely restraining himself from advancing upon her. He could have breathed her in when he was so close to her. But he would not be hasty; he would say everything he practiced and not allow himself to be governed by wild carelessness. He would not do Margaret such dishonor. He stepped away from her.

"Miss Hale, I fear I was very ungrateful yesterday."

"You have nothing to be grateful for," she cut in quickly. "What I did . . ." she hesitated, as she needed to clarify which reckless act she meant, ". . . in the yard was only natural instinct. Any woman would have done the same."

"I do not believe that, Miss Hale. I know your sense of compassion, but not all women share that virtue with the same depth. You shall not stop me from professing my gratitude. I believe I owe my very life to you, and I am profoundly thankful for that."

Margaret would not accept such thanks; she felt another responsibility that negated any gratitude she may have earned. "You, owe your life to _me_? I am the one who sent you into the danger. I endangered your life, Mr. Thornton, so I do not deserve your thanks. I do not care to hear it."

He was confused and surprised by her indignant response. Why was she fighting him? "You are not responsible for my going out; it was I who chose to heed your words, true as they were. And no matter what responsibility you feel for my being in the fray, you still came and protected me from harm."

"I am ashamed of my actions, Mr. Thornton!" she cried. She spoke impulsively to stop his gratitude, and was rewarded by the stricken look on his face as he stepped further back.

"That cannot be true," he spoke haltingly. Did she mean her actions among the rioters only, or was she ashamed at everything? Was she ashamed by the same event that had made him rejoice, that was the only balm to that miserable day? He was afraid to ask. He did not want to know the answer.

She knew what was in his mind, but she could not acknowledge it. Her hasty words took her thoughts in a different direction, and she did not want to give in to physical weakness and desire without making herself clear. She wanted his defense before she would directly refer to their illicit embrace.

"You did not need me to protect you, Mr. Thornton, you clearly had the matter well in hand," she said coldly.

"Yes, which is why you ran out and shielded me from harm," was his sarcastic and bitter reply.

"You did not need me!" she repeated. "You had already sent for the soldiers to 'bring them to reason.'"

So that was it, he realized. That was the heart of the matter for her, that he had taken measures to protect his family and employees from just such violence as had occurred. His face hardened as he said, "Would you have me leave the Irish and my family open to fear and injury, then? You approve of their violence; you think I got what I deserved?"

"No, of course not! But they were desperate. Poor souls driven to the brink, and you waited calmly and coldly for them to be beaten down."

"How would you have me behave, Miss Hale?" he exploded. "When all else is chaos, am I to let down all of those who look to me for guidance and safety? If I lost my head and gave in, they would be disadvantaged and unprotected. Their fear would be the greater if I did not conduct myself in the manner I did. You are determined to think the worst of what I do and why I do it. You are unfair and unjust."

Her temper lessened at his accusation, feeling how similar his charge of her wilful judgment was to her own fears of what Fanny and others thought of her actions. She recognized that he had done right by those under his protection, so she would grant him his argument that he did what must be done to guard his family and workers, that he had little choice in how he responded to the rioters. But there was still that anger within her, fueled by a prejudice she had not rid herself of yet.

"But why could you not talk to them first?" she asked in a quieter tone, but no less rigid.

"I thought that was what I did." He also had lowered his voice, and matched her sharpness word for word.

"Perhaps, but I saw you and heard you." This was, of course, not entirely true. "If you would only reason with them kindly, I'm sure they would –"

"Reason!" he exclaimed. "You think they could have seen reason from anything I would say? Look at the reason they had with you!" He could not be forgiving to those who would viciously hurt an innocent woman, much less Margaret. "Look how they repaid your kindness!"

He strode up to her and pushed her hair aside to reveal the wound. His voice became a whisper. "This is here because you wanted to show them sympathy and calm them. And look what they did to you."

His hasty touch had startled her into a temporary silence, and she saw his raw pain. Almost she gave in, wanting to comfort him. But a good part of her ire was still up, and she refused to be dissuaded. She moved away.

"They did this to me because they had been driven mad with hunger and suffering. How could I not have sympathy for them? Yet you would blame me for that sympathy. You would hold it against me, though I protected you from them. See, I was not so blinded by their plight as to be ignorant of what they could do to you. And what must you think of me, insisting on thanking me for following natural instinct? You must think that my conduct was a personal act between you and me!"

His face went red. "I know that what you did in the yard was only out of your sense of compassion and justice. I do not deny that. But you cannot deny that what happened between us before I went out there certainly _was_ a 'personal act.'"

Finally they had come to it, that reckless, ill-advised, wonderful kiss. He wondered how they had avoided it this long, but no longer would it go unsaid. Her face blushed crimson at his words. He was confused and dismayed at this heated battle. He had hoped when they spoke of that moment it would bring joy. But instead he had hurled the memory of it at her in anger, making it sound like an denunciation. Once more he had to quiet his voice, calm his raging heart. She looked down at the floor while he struggled for control.

"So you are here because of that." She spoke low. Her insecurities were realized; he had only come because he was bound by honor. This thought filled her with a weary sorrow that deflated her previous anger. Why had it come to this? Why, when they argued so furiously about the rioters and the strike, why was this what mattered to her most? Despite her obstinate arguments, she would have forgiven him everything if he only would forget society's demands.

He misunderstood what made her lower her voice and straightened, wanting to move beyond the hurtful arguing. Taking a breath, he replied, "Yes, I am." Now that it was in the open, he would not be stopped from telling her his feelings. No matter what had been said up to this point, he still loved her, and still wanted to make things right between them.

"To rescue me," she said dully.

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Rescue you?"

She raised her head. "Yes, to save me. Because you are now bound in honor." Her words were bitter and her tone was becoming angry again.

"That is not why I am here," he said with some menace in his voice. He had not meant to speak in such a way, but they were well in the habit of anger this morning, and it was becoming easier each moment to raise their voices.

"Oh, no? You are not here to perform a duty because of that personal act?" She spoke ever higher.

"It is no duty," he insisted, also higher.

"Why do you lie to me? I know why you are here. You are here to offer for me; you are here to rescue my reputation!"

"I _am_ here to offer for you, Margaret, but I gave no thought to your reputation! I only gave thought to how I love you!" His voice was still heightened, but at his final words, his desperation broke through. She had to know why he was there, and what truly drove him to her. She must know that he loved her!

She froze at his declaration. A sliver of hope opened in her heart, but she would not give in to it. He spoke of love to her, but he could not be sincere. "You don't mean that. You only seek to have –"

He would not let her finish. "I _do_ mean it. I wish to marry you because I love you! I do not care about honor or duty or what any gossip-mongers might say. I love you, as I don't believe man ever loved woman before. And I believed there was a chance that you might love me."

"Because of that personal act?" she asked with feigned scorn, wanting to mask her rising hope in him.

That blasted phrase! "Because of everything! Can you deny that you have changed toward me?" She turned away to face the wall; hearing his pleading was too much. If she continued to look at him, she would admit how shameless her desires were, how much she wanted him. This was her last resort to resist him. "Walking together, the dinner, my visits to your home? I have seen you, Margaret." Would he stop saying her name? "I know you feel for me, as I feel for you. I know you care for me." He hesitated. "As for that kiss, I thought it was another sign that you could love me, but that would not be the first time I was mistaken in you. And clearly you regret that it happened."

She whirled to face him. "Regret it? How could I regret it? I don't – I don't!" She was stumbling over her words again, but at least she had finally halted his hypnotic voice, his hopeful words. "I just can't let it happen again. I am unworthy of you." He made to contradict her, but she went on. "I am, I am unworthy because I want it again; I want it all the more, wanton that I am. I can't let it happen again, but I want it. I want you. I want to be near you, I want you to hold me and kiss me and call me Margaret. I want it." Her voice died away, her eyes widening in shock at the brazenness of her less-than-eloquent speech.

Her confession stilled anything he was about to respond with as he was shocked into silence himself. All coherent thought left him. The former indignation in her expressive eyes was replaced by an intense longing, one that matched the feeling in his breast. There was no thought anymore as he reacted instinctively. He had crossed the room in quick strides, his arms had encircled her waist; he did not hesitate now as his lips were upon hers.


	14. Her Response

Margaret was soaring. His powerful arms held her close as they embraced each other, deeply, hungrily. She was alive to his every touch; every movement of his lips against hers awakened more feeling in her as she clung to him. She had never before felt so reckless and secure. He drew her closer with every passing moment, her hands instinctively moving from his shoulders to his hair. There was no thought but him, no awareness that anybody could interrupt them, only his all-consuming presence. The familiar pressure was gone now as it was spent on her matching his ardor, expressing her own passion. Had she ever felt so vibrant?

The hunger of their embrace finally gave way to a slower, more tender fervor. He did not release her from his grasp, but his mouth moved away from hers to plant gentle, feathery kisses on her brow, her cheeks, her eyes. Each graze sparkled within her, and when he whispered her name into her ear, she thrilled in ecstasy. How could she have ever believed that this was wrong, this affection and passion that she was so obviously made for? He returned to her mouth soon, alternating kisses with her name. She was only too happy to hear the open feeling in his voice, returning touch for touch, smile for smile.

Too soon, he drew away. She thought of pulling him back, closing the gap between them, but before she could do so, he smiled warmly and brought a hand up to her cheek, caressing her face in wonder. She leaned into his touch, reveling in his adoration. Finally he spoke, quietly and reverently.

"Margaret." Would she ever tire of hearing her name on his lips? "Marry me." It was not phrased as a question, but his tone was so gentle and soft that there was no hint that it could be a command. She could only hear pleading and love in his voice, and she opened her mouth to answer, ready to accept him in the midst of her passionate haze. But a portion of her mind cleared, reminding her that only minutes ago, there had been conflict. Anger. Opposition. And as much as she might wish to in the safety and comfort of his arms, she could not ignore that.

She pulled away from him silently. She hated looking at him and seeing the question in his eyes, and she hated the answer she must give him. How could she explain herself?

"I cannot. Forgive me."

His dismay was more than evident in the drop of his mouth and the stagger of his frame as he turned away from her.

"Please, Mr. Thornton, please let me explain."

"There is nothing to explain. You will not have me. You have misled me." He could not bring himself to say more; his feelings were in disarray at her refusal.

"No, there is more to it than that, I promise you. Please believe me when I say I did not mean to mislead you. I do care for you. Truly, I do. Very greatly."

"And yet you deny me," he growled, not a little angrily.

"Yes."

"Why? If you care for me so greatly? Why refuse me?"

She felt helpless at his angry sorrow. "Mr. Thornton, it has not been very long since my feelings for you began to change. There is so much I do not know or understand about you, and I cannot accept a man whom I do not yet love."

He noted the word "yet" spoken, but forced himself to ignore it, as disappointed as he was. "If you do not share my feelings, why allow me to take such liberties? Why return them?"

"You will not believe that I do share your feelings, Mr. Thornton!" Margaret exclaimed. But she would remain calm. She would see the situation through his eyes, and she could see that her behavior was very contradictory to him. After all, only moments before she had declared that he lied about his feelings, the next moment she had given way to them, and then the next moment abruptly turned from them. "But I do. There are times when I think that I _could_ love you. My feelings for you are very strong, but as long as there is doubt within me, I should not give way to my feelings, no matter how much they persuade me to consent."

"And what doubts can you have? Is this still about the strike?" There was desperation rather than anger in his voice as he faced her again, wanting to shake her shoulders and convince her to retract her denial.

"Yes, that is part of it," she said simply. "I do not know everything about you yet. And I am not sure I can reconcile your behavior within myself."

"And nothing I have said on this matter has done any good? I have done nothing to show you that I am not so evil?"

"No, you _have_, Mr. Thornton. I do understand better what your position is, and I want to understand more. I want to know you. I want to say yes to you!"

Her direct admission made him nearly forget himself and give in to passion once more, but he stood his ground. "Then why do you not?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "I need time to know for certain. I need to know that I do really love you." She knew she was hurting him; she was hurting herself to say it, but it must be said. "I feel so much for you, Mr. Thornton. I am nearly overcome by my feeling for you, but I cannot tell yet whether it is sincere love. And I will not do you the dishonor of accepting you while I am still in doubt."

He stared at her in disbelief. That she could deny him and still believe she was doing him honor by doing so seemed so preposterous, yet she was sincere. He knew that she was honest. He allowed his anger to pass him by, but his disappointment would not abate. He was almost desperate enough to tell her that she needn't give him such credit; he would gladly take whatever she had to offer him now if she would only marry him. But he knew she would not accept such terms. He needed to cling to what little she did give him.

"Then I will not press you any longer." He spoke dully, and she was quick to step forward and offer him her hand. He wanted to deny it, but he could not stop himself from craving her touch. He looked into her eyes as he took her hand and saw gratitude and sorrow.

"Thank you, Mr. Thornton. You . . . you cannot know how difficult this is for me to say. I . . . I know I have disappointed and hurt you. I can only say that I hope it will not last very long."

"Margaret," he could not revert to calling her Miss Hale, "It will only last as long as you refuse me."

The grief in his voice caused her heart to swell. How could she have injured him so much? "Some day I will not. This is not no, not forever. This is only no, for now." She thought of how little recompense this admission must seem, but his eyes did lighten briefly.

"For now?" he repeated, a hint of a mournful smile on his lips.

"For now," she assured him. "One day . . . I'm sure that I can love you. I already could, but I am afraid of mistaking desire for love. I need to be certain." At such assurances, she saw the luster return to his eyes as he took her in and noted her frank admission of desiring him.

Boldly he brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed her palm delicately. "Is there anything I can do to persuade you?" His voice had become silky and seductive, and all too quickly she felt intoxicated. Her breath became ragged as he pressed another kiss to her hand and she felt herself nearly giving in to his ministrations.

But she could not. She would not rush headlong into a marriage simply because her husband-to-be was so devastatingly attractive. She could not hope that every argument would give way to passion. She could see and admit that she wanted passion, but she wanted it to proceed from happiness and love, not anger and disagreement. She wanted to know that when inevitable arguments manifested themselves, they would not be swept under the rug. She needed to stick to her resolve, as shaky as it was when he cast his alluring eyes on her.

"I'm sure there is, but it will still take time," she managed.

There was still that disappointment in his eyes, but she was relieved and glad to see that hope and desire had done their part to lessen its severity. He pressed his lips to her palm once more and lowered her hand, reluctantly letting it go. Her decision was not what he wanted now, but he would make himself be patient. She had all but promised that one day she would be his wife, and he would not destroy all chance of that happiness by forcing her to accept him today. He swallowed as he collected himself in her overwhelming presence, repeating to himself that all was not lost. She did not want him to give up, and he vowed to do everything in his power to persuade her to accept him as soon as possible.

* * *

When Mr. Hale came home, he was pleased to see Mr. Thornton sitting with his daughter in the drawing room. While he had been out, he had heard some dreadful things about events at Marlborough Mills, and he was eager to verify their authenticity. Who better to ask than his favorite pupil?

After thanking him for his visit, he immediately said, "I understand there has been some violence at Marlborough Mills. Is this true?" He did not see his daughter's face flush, so intent was he on knowing what had happened.

Mr. Thornton replied calmly without even a glance at Margaret. "Yes, I'm afraid it is. There were some . . . disgruntled strikers who were not overpleased at my bringing in Irish workers."

"To get the mill running again, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Well, I suppose I can understand some anger on the strikers' part, but that certainly does not justify violence. I hope there has not been too much damage."

"We do have to repair the mill gate, but nothing and no one else was harmed." He head twitched slightly toward Margaret, who bowed her head. Only then did Mr. Hale remember.

"Margaret! You went to Marlborough Mills yesterday. Were you there when all of this happened?"

With a look to Mr. Thornton, she quickly replied, "Yes, Father, but I was quite safe. Mr. Thornton took all possible precautions to protect us, and it did not last very long. I was well defended." No one could have doubted her from her cool reply.

"Well, thank God for that. I am sorry you were there at all, but at least you are safe. Perhaps it is best that we do not tell your mother, though. I do not want to distress her without cause."

"Of course, Father."

With his conscience quite cleared on that matter, he turned back to Mr. Thornton. "I also understand that the rioting has finished the strike. What will happen now?"

Mr. Thornton hesitated before answering. "I cannot know everything that will happen, but the mills will reopen and machines will be running again. People coming back in droves, and many of them not pleased to do it. The riot leaders were not representative of the union leaders who led the strike. I have already heard reports of their own anger that the rioters broke the law. But as such actions have ruined their plans, they will have to come back to work with the rest of them."

"And the Irish?" Margaret inquired.

"Most of them will go home. And I'm sure after yesterday, they will be most glad to set their backs to Milton. I cannot blame them. But some may stay; I am not sure. I am sorry to have brought them over just to expose them to terror and violence."

"But that was not your fault," she said quietly.

He looked at her with such gratitude overflowing, that Mr. Hale uneasily wondered if he had missed something from their conversation before he came home.

"Far be it from me to regret your presence, John, but doubtless you are very busy with this great upheaval. What brought you here this morning?"

"I came to inquire if the water-bed arrived for Mrs. Hale. My mother was afraid that it was sent too late."

So his purpose was entirely innocent; Mr. Hale breathed a little easier. "It did come too late for Mrs. Hale to use it last night, but we were able to put it down for her morning sleep. How has she fared, Margaret?"

"Well, I think. She was sleeping soundly when Mr. Thornton arrived, and I have heard nothing since."

"I hope it will be of some comfort to her," Mr. Thornton said sincerely. "But you are correct, Mr. Hale, that I am busy. I believe I will be more than that for some time. So I should return to my duties." He stood and shook hands with both Mr. Hale and Margaret. Mr. Hale imagined for a moment that Mr. Thornton held Margaret's hand a hair longer than necessary, but he dismissed the thought as silliness.

As Mr. Thornton went through the doorway, Margaret said suddenly, "Father, I thought I might call on Bessy. Do you require me for anything?" Mr. Hale could think of nothing, and Margaret was also gone, quick as a flash.

* * *

He had heard her question to her father clearly as he walked down the stairs and smiled to himself. He would wait for her at the end of street, certain as he was that she intended him to hear that she would leave the house. Sure enough, instead of surprise to see him awaiting her, she smiled that he had understood her meaning.

They did not walk together long, as their paths took them in different directions, but the few minutes they were together were filled with quiet contentment. She held his arm, and if their bodies were a little closer than convention called for, they could hardly be blamed for it. In fact, in contrast to some of their behavior this morning, their current proximity to each other felt as though they were on opposite sides of the street.

Their move to the drawing room from the study was accomplished soon after they had ceased arguing. It was a wonder that their raised voices had not brought Dixon down, and it was purely providential that neither she nor Mr. Hale had interrupted what followed their fight. They did not want to tempt fate or each other any longer by remaining in an enclosed room. The drawing room had no door to close, so they would have to behave themselves there. As wonderful as their embrace had been and as much as they both desired to repeat it, it was not proper. They both knew it. Even had they been formally engaged, the show of passion exhibited would have been much more than was strictly accepted.

An excuse was decided between them for his arrival, so as not to raise the suspicions of her family and the observant Dixon. It would not do for her family to know precisely what had happened, imprudent as they would most likely view her refusal in light of her actions. And with how matters currently stood between them, they were both wary to confide in anybody their feelings. It must be better for them to remain silent until their attachment was conclusively defined. Margaret also confessed her fears that her parents would discover her presence at his home during the riot. Neither wished to be deceptive – it was not in their natures – but they both agreed that although her being at his home could not be concealed, it was better that her parents be ignorant of her injury. It would only distract her father's worries, and it might do Mrs. Hale further harm. They could only hope that none of the rioters knew her identity, so that stories of the worst violence done that day would hide her name. As Margaret had recognized only Boucher among the crowd and they had met only once, hopes were high that she would be safe from rumor. He only hoped he could control the tongues of his household servants and sister. She, knowing how well he adopted an intimidating stare and attitude, had no doubts of his ability to do so.

When they reached the turning where Margaret would go on to Frances Street, their parting was shy and a little awkward. Both were unsure of how much to say and were afraid of saying too little. But the smiles were sincere, and when she looked back to see him walking away, she was more than glad to see him look back at her.

* * *

.

**A/N: **Surprised? After reading your reviews of the last chapter, I honestly thought, "Oh, they are all going to be ticked when she says no!" Hope you can understand the reasons behind that decision. I am pretty much terrible at writing couples once they are officially together (either really boring or far too sappy), so I follow in the footsteps of Jane Austen, ending stories with engagement and/or marriage. And I wasn't quite ready for her to accept him just yet, so this is my solution. So, even though she said no, things are still looking up! Yay, right?

May I just say I love reading all of your reviews? Keep this up and I won't be able to fit my head through the door. A few of you have made comments about how quickly I update and how much you appreciate it, and I wanted to let you in on a little secret on why that is. I had a pretty good chunk of this story written before I ever started publishing it. As of the posting of the last chapter, I have officially finished writing it (well, my "first draft" of it, at least). However, since I am an editor and a perfectionist, I take what I consider to be my sweet time to post chapters (although i know that in fanfiction terms, it's really quick) because I am constantly editing and re-writing what I've written.


	15. A Mother's Plea

Margaret's hopeful mood was not allowed to linger once she arrived at the Higgins' home. Bessy was not able to sit herself up, proof to Margaret of how much more ill she had become. Now Margaret knew why Bessy had not come to see her dressed for the dinner party, and she felt guilty she had not spared the time to come see her. "Of course," she told herself, "I've had Mama to think of." But this did little to ease the gnawing discomfort of her heart as she sat by her weakened friend.

Bessy did not speak at first; only looked. Margaret grew fidgety under her gaze, afraid as she was that Bessy may know something of Margaret's presence at the riot. She had little hope that the subject would not be mentioned, but she would not be the one to bring it up. Finally Bessy said, "I thought I should not have seen you again." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Oh, no," Margaret said in some distress. "Do not say that, Bessy. I'm sorry I have not come, but don't think that I had forgotten you." She took Bessy's listless hand in hers, giving a warm smile; Bessy barely returned it.

"I would not have thought that. It's been a hard few days, is all, and we've not had a quiet time of it. Father's so angry, and I can do nothing to help him."

Margaret had hoped they would talk of other things first, but it was not to be. No doubt Bessy was referring to the riot, and Margaret was both eager and afraid to find out exactly what Bessy knew. She remembered what Mr. Thornton had said about the anger of the union leaders as she asked cautiously, "Why is Nicholas angry?"

"You heard of the riot? At Marlborough Mills?" Margaret merely nodded in response. "He'd have given his right hand for that never to come to pass. He's a committee man, and he's knocked down in his mind by the fools who broke their plans. They were to hold together, through thick and thin, and no going against the law. They'd have been able to keep public opinion on their side if they hadn't . . ." she broke into a fit of coughing, unused as she was to speaking for any lengthy amount of time these days.

When the coughing subsided, Margaret spoke gently. "It cannot be so very bad as all that. I know the strike has broken, and that's a disappointment, but surely it would be better to go on."

"He'll never do such a thing as that, Margaret, he's so angry. He was in such a fit yesterday, yelling and stamping at Boucher, swearing that he'd go to the police himself and give Boucher up. For it was _he_ that stirred up the riot in the first place, mad as he'd gone. And some folks just needed that little touch to go into a frenzy. Without it, there'd have been no riot, no breaking up of the committee's plans."

"So Boucher is being pursued, then?" Margaret asked sadly.

Bessy nodded. "He and the other ringleaders. They also say that Boucher threw a stone at Thornton's sister and nearly killed her."

Margaret became more alert at Bessy's words, though a flush insisted on visiting her cheeks. "Is that what's been said?"

"Yes, and Father was well-nigh murderous when he found out. He does not like the masters, but he certainly didn't want anybody getting hurt. And then something like that happens, and you can't fully blame him for being angry at Boucher."

"It was not Boucher that threw the stone," Margaret said somewhat thoughtlessly.

"How do you know?"

"I . . . I was there," Margaret admitted, but hastily went on. "But never mind that; have you seen Boucher since?"

Bessy gave no sign that she was affected by Margaret's admittance to being at the Thornton's. "No, only for the bit he was here last night. He was so upset and trying to give reason for his actions, but when Father threatened to give him up, he flew at him and struck him. Father was able to throw him off, but he ran out, all the while Father's shouting out the door after him."

Bessy's eyes filled with tears. "I've never seen him like this before. I'm afraid of what he might do."

Margaret squeezed Bessy's hand tighter as she broke into painful sobs, trying to quiet and calm her. But although Bessy's tears did not last, her fears concerning her father were not alleviated, despite Margaret's comforting words. Margaret's relief that her name and presence had gone unmarked by the rioters was swallowed up by her sorrow for her friend.

* * *

Mrs. Thornton was agitated. She sewed with vigor, hoping to occupy her mind, but the least noise brought her head up from her work. All too often, she only imagined she heard something, which made her sew the more furiously. And still her son had not come home. Fanny had escaped her mother's austere presence several hours earlier, for her chatter could not penetrate the brooding silence her mother imposed on nearly the entire house. But still Mrs. Thornton sewed, with or without her daughter for company. And she would go on until John appeared.

It was not like him to exclude her. She was used to being consulted by him on every part of his life, and she was proud of it. But lately he had been keeping something from her; she had her suspicions of what it was, and after seeing his attentions to Miss Hale at the dinner party, she felt her suspicions were confirmed. How he had been caught by such a haughty girl who could never possibly understand their way of life was beyond her reckoning, but she was prepared once she took note. And then the events of the day before happened, and to say Mrs. Thornton was displeased would be optimistic.

When John had called for her aid with Miss Hale, she assumed that the rioters had turned their violence to the house and struck Miss Hale from where she watched at the window. But it was not too long before she saw that no broken glass littered her floor and the whisperings of the servants began to din in her ears. And soon Miss Hale was no longer a mere victim, but a cunning minx who used the terrible situation to her advantage. She had gone out and embraced John in public to ensnare him and bind his honor to her. He would have no further choice in the matter. What an artful girl Miss Hale turned out to be, no matter the protection she had given Mrs. Thornton's son.

She had hoped that when John came home the previous evening, he would stop to consult and speak with her, but her hopes were in vain. He had stopped, but it could hardly be called speaking in comparison to what she was used to and considering everything that had happened. He had only inquired after Miss Hale's whereabouts, and soon retired. He had not even told her anything of his business with the police or how he would deal with the situation with the Irish. How she wanted to help him, advise him. But he had not required her advice. And she did not like this turn of events. She liked it even less when he disappeared that morning without a word.

So she sat on, sewing in her ignorance and paranoid curiosity, waiting for the time John would walk through the door. She would not allow him to escape her; she would make him talk. And she lifted her face at every stray sound because she was so afraid of missing him. She was ready to burst in impatience, though to the untrained eye, she sat as cold and stern as ever.

At last she heard a sound that was not imagined. The door below had opened, and he was coming up the stairs. He came into the room with a light step, one that seemed to her inappropriate considering all that had happened here and all the burden he must carry. He stood at the window overlooking the yard, but did not say a word.

"Well, John?" She could not bear to be kept in the dark any longer.

"Well, Mother?" he repeated. His expression confused her, for it was neither happy nor unhappy, but contemplative. His response made it clear he was not disposed to be communicative, but Mrs. Thornton was not dissuaded so easily.

"Where have you been this morning?" If she was trying to sound nonchalant, she was failing.

"I visited the Hales. I wanted to ask after the health of both Mrs. and Miss Hale."

"Oh, I am sure Miss Hale is very well; she was well enough to leave so quickly yesterday," she waved the memory of Miss Hale away, as though an insignificant gesture were enough to drive Miss Hale out of her son's heart.

"I understand she left so quickly so as to not give her mother undue alarm. I'm sure she would not have been so quick to leave otherwise."

Mrs. Thornton pursed her lips. He had clearly done more than just ask after the health of the Hale ladies, so why would he not tell her? She was jealous to think that somebody else had gained her son's first confidence, taking her place. But she knew his heart was engaged, and surely if he had done his duty to the predicament Miss Hale had placed him in, his honor was engaged, as well. But why would he not tell her so? She no longer wished to dance around the issue that plagued her mind.

"And have you done your duty by her?"

He was startled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, have you spoken to Miss Hale?"

"Yes," he answered slowly, knowing that his mother meant more than what she was saying.

"Well, you could hardly do otherwise," she said resignedly.

"Mother, I don't understand you." He walked over and sat next to her, his frustration evident.

"I mean that, after allowing her feelings to so overcome her, I consider you bound in honor –"

"Bound in honor," he scoffed. "Of course you would use that phrase."

"Well, it is true, isn't it? Did she not rush down, and cling to you to save you from danger?"

"She did," he confirmed. "But you do not understand her. You do not know what made her do it."

"I understand her quite well," she said scornfully. "I understand she was ready to do anything to secure you."

"Mother!" His anger showed in full force now. "That is unfair and unfeeling of you to attribute such mean arts to her. She had no such thought; she only wanted to protect me. You should know better than to spread such tittle-tattle."

"And you think I am responsible for it? I can assure you, it is not just me speaking of it." Never could she remember her son being cross with her, but she was no meek and mild lamb; she did not shy away. "And you are telling me she did not prove her feelings in such an action? You are saying she feels nothing for you?"

This stopped him in his tracks. He could not deny her accusations. Nor would he conceal his own feelings any longer. He and Margaret had not sworn to hide their attachment, after all, and his mother was pressing the matter. "No, Mother, I am not saying that. Mar- Miss Hale does care for me, and I for her" –she felt a sting at her heart at his confirmation- "but still what she did yesterday was done out of good intent alone, and she does not deserve your malicious judgment."

"So," Mrs. Thornton said quietly. "You know she cares for you. You have proposed to her."

"I have, but not because of any duty. I love her, Mother."

There was some silence as Mrs. Thornton wavered in the wake of his declaration. It was done, and she would have to steel herself to the idea of Miss Hale as her daughter-in-law. "Then I will do my best to accept your marriage. If she will make you happy."

"No, Mother. I have no engagement to announce," he interrupted with anxiety and a little hurt. He knew she would not approve of such a twist in the affair.

"No engagement?" Mrs. Thornton exclaimed. "You don't mean to say she refused you!" Some relief was in her words, but more shock and disbelief than anything.

"She did, but . . . it is only for now," he hesitatingly revealed. He knew how weak such words would sound to her. Oh, why had she ever insisted on pursuing this subject?

"For now!" Her indignation was great.

"Yes, Mother, she cares for me, but she wants to be certain she loves me. That is all." He wanted to drop the matter, but Mrs. Thornton would not let it be dropped.

"Certain! What does she mean, 'certain'? Why, she might be a duke's daughter, to hear you speak! What, to secure you in such a manner and then refuse you? She is such a fickle, impulsive girl."

"You are unjust to her, Mother," he replied heatedly. "And the more you try to misinterpret and distort her actions, the more I will defend her. She is good and compassionate, and her actions and intentions are pure before God. I will not hear you abuse and mistreat her in such a way. She is far better than you give her credit for."

"Can you be certain of that, John?" she implored, wanting to lessen his fury but still so doubtful.

"I _am_ certain of it."

His words were so sure and firm, Mrs. Thornton nearly gave way. But her jealousy of being usurped in her son's affections prejudiced her against Margaret, so she was not entirely swayed. She still thought it presumptuous and immodest for a girl to admit feelings for a man and yet reject his proposal. She could not approve of that. But for her son's happiness, she would try to accept Miss Hale in time.

* * *

When Margaret returned home, her mother was in the drawing room. Margaret was heartened to see she felt well enough to be there. She was confined to her bed as often as she was out of it the last few weeks, and her recent attack had started to decrease the amount of time she spent away from her room. Margaret was distressed to see how much both her mother and Bessy were weakening. It seemed as though their lives were being held in the same precarious balance, and sooner rather than later, the scales would tip and they would both be lost. She pulled herself out of these morbid thoughts as she greeted her and listened to the raptures over the water-bed.

"It was so kind of the Thorntons to spare it, and your father told me Mr. Thornton came himself this morning to inquire about it. It was very good of him to call."

Margaret allowed herself a secret smile about Mr. Thornton's real reason for visiting, content to let her mother believe the invented story. If it made Mrs. Hale continue to think well of him, so much the better. Were Margaret to accept him, she would hope both her parents were happy in such a match.

"I felt as though I slept in the beds at Sir John Beresford's on that water-bed," her mother continued. "Do you recall them?"

"No, Mama, I never was at Oxenham, so I never got to try the beds there."

Mrs. Hale's brow furrowed in recollected pain. "Oh, yes, it was Frederick I took to Oxenham, to your Aunt Shaw's wedding. And he was only a baby, but he won so many hearts there; he had that gift as he grew up, as well." Her eyes became aglow with unshed tears as she thought of her beloved son who was now lost to her.

"Oh, Margaret, I have lost my dear boy, and I think I shall never see him again." The tears began to fall at this confession, and she felt sure she could not be consoled.

Margaret immediately sat closer to her, caressing her hand in comfort, but quite at a loss of what to say. She was sure her mother's fear would be correct too soon, and there was nothing she could bring herself to say to the contrary. It was unlikely that Frederick even knew of her mother's illness. She did not know when her father last wrote, and he was unlikely to have mentioned it in a letter, anyway.

Mrs. Hale choked herself out of her sobs. "Margaret, if only . . . it is so hard to think of never seeing him again . . . if I am to die before too long, I wish . . . no, I must – I must see my child first." Her voice had taken on a sudden weak vehemence. "Margaret, please . . . bring him to me, please let me see him before I die!"

Her tears came again unrestrained, and Margaret only wished to heal her mother's sorrow, as she was powerless to cure her illness. Undoubtedly, Frederick should at least be informed of his mother's condition. She was sure that if he were aware of that, he would come even without a summons, no matter the danger. But Mrs. Hale was so pleading, so miserable, and so devoid of hope that Margaret would not even trust to her assumption that he would come without invitation. She must do what she could to fulfill her mother's dear and last wish and ask him. Frederick must come.

"Mama," she spoke steadily and calmly as her mother's cries quieted. "I will write to Frederick tonight. I will tell him of your wishes. I will do all I can to make sure you do see him."

Her mother reached out her hands to cling to Margaret's arms. "Oh, Margaret, do write quickly. Don't lose a single post. Then he will be here. I shall see my boy." Her desperate exertion and plea exhausted what little strength she possessed, and she soon sank back onto the cushions. All the while, Margaret promised that she would see Frederick soon.

The letter was written in Mrs. Hale's presence; she would take no chances of Margaret being dishonest or delinquent, and sent her to post the letter herself. Margaret was anxious and fearful to the last step as she delivered the letter, and spent her entire sojourn home unsure that she had done right to make such a promise that would endanger Frederick. She decided at last that the promise had been made and the letter sent, so she would accept whatever consequences came, for good or ill.


	16. Calm Before a Storm

Despite her best efforts, Margaret was never able to shake her anxiety over Frederick entirely. Her father's stunned reaction when she told him what she had done had not given her much consolation. Although he had recovered from the shock and assured her of his gratitude that she would do so much for her mother, he could not help mentioning the great danger Frederick would be in if discovered.

"All these years since the mutiny?" she grasped at a hope.

"Yes, oh yes. The navy spares no expense to search out mutineers. They send out ships, scour the seas to find those who would challenge their authority, and the length of time since the offense is no deterrent. It is a fresh and vivid crime that may as well have been committed yesterday."

"Oh, papa, it seemed right at the time, and I'm sure Frederick would run the risk."

"So he should. But we will do our best for him when he does come. We will know what to do to keep Frederick safe."

So for the time being, they went on as ever before, and Mrs. Hale grew weaker. But never did she forget each day to ask Margaret how long it had been since she wrote, if Frederick was likely to have received her letter by now, or if he could perhaps be on his way to them. Margaret did her best to temper her mother's frail eagerness for fear it would speed her to the grave. She deliberately misspoke the calculations of time and chance so Mrs. Hale was less likely to be disappointed if Frederick did not appear at the earliest moment. Mrs. Hale's illness was so advanced now, she had not noticed the change in dates Margaret gave her. But still she insisted on being brought to the drawing room; she had begun to hate the walls of her own room and wanted to be able to receive her son properly.

Margaret found very few moments of happiness during the next few weeks, as weighed down by care as she was. Her mother and Bessy deteriorated before her very eyes, her father was himself faint-hearted and was too afraid and sorrowful to give her much comfort, her anxiety for Frederick loomed over her, she was growing weary of the household duties she was forced into overseeing, and she saw Mr. Thornton only rarely.

It was not his fault that he had not much time to spare for them; Marlborough Mills had opened and was running again, and he was kept away from Crampton more often by having to work all hours. But he did his best, she knew, and came as often as he could to visit the Hales in the evenings. His deep and rich voice had a calming effect on Mrs. Hale's fidgets and Mr. Hale was as grateful as ever for his company. Because Mr. Thornton had no time to spare during the day, much of their talk was intellectual, for both missed their lessons together.

And yet, as little as Margaret saw him and participated in the discussions when he did come, it was at those times that she was able to forget her worries over Frederick and truly enjoy herself. Mr. Hale was interested in knowing how the work was going now that the workers had returned, and Margaret was no less curious. One evening the subject had returned to the strike and Mr. Hale inquired if anything had been discovered of the ringleaders of the riot, and what Mr. Thornton would do if they were caught.

"Well," he replied with a glance toward Margaret, who made no bones about how intently she was listening. "Now that the strike is over, I see no point in prosecution against them. They did wrong, but their lives are hard enough without the fear of the law on them. Their names are known, which I'm sure will make it difficult for them to get employment. I can't think of any who would give such men work. That alone will be severe enough punishment. To do more than that would be beyond seeking justice, and I hope I am not so vindictive."

As Mr. Hale spoke his approval of such actions, Mr. Thornton had given her a sidelong glance to see the approval in her smile, which must be admitted to mean more to him than Mr. Hale's words.

But it was not only the conversation to be had when he came that brought her happiness. In fact, it meant very little when compared to the secret smiles they exchanged and the subtle ways he found to show her some attention. One evening she made a game of dropping her sewing simply to see how long he would be in picking it up for her. It was never very long. They hardly touched except for when they shook hands, but another evening, he had offered to help her serve the tea things, and as her hand rested idly on the table, he dropped his warm hand on top of it for a brief moment. Her impish grin at such behavior was enough to occupy his heart for the rest of the evening.

As much as they tried to conceal their unspoken flirtations, Margaret was sure that one day her father would notice. But she need not have concerned herself on such a thought, for even when Mr. Hale caught any poorly hidden hint of his daughter's and pupil's attachment to each other, he would dismiss it in a moment. He was only glad that they had become friends, after a fashion. Anything else beyond that he could not fathom.

On one such evening, Mr. Hale had been obliged to leave the drawing room on some private business, leaving Margaret and Mr. Thornton to attend to Mrs. Hale, who was having one of her better days. Mr. Thornton had been wise enough to engage her on the topic of her girlhood, and though she paused for breath fairly often, she clearly reveled in speaking of her glory days as Miss Beresford.

"My sister and I had such times at the assemblies, meeting the best people and dancing as often as we could. We so enjoyed dancing. I'm sure your Aunt Shaw escorted you to such assemblies, didn't she, Margaret?"

"To some, but not many. I was not overfond of how crowded it was, Mama, so hot and little room for dancing. At least not without jostling into everybody around you. It was very easy to be overlooked in such a crowd, so even had I wished to, I did not have much opportunity to dance."

"Indeed? Well, how times change, for I do not recollect any such deficiencies. In any case, you still had more occasion to dance in London than you have here."

Margaret laughed. "Now that is very true."

"Are you fond of dancing, then, Miss Hale?" he asked. Though in his private thoughts she was Margaret to him, he had continued for propriety's sake to call her "Miss Hale" in public.

"Yes, I suppose so. I always enjoyed it when I had the chance. Of course, many times my enjoyment was in direct proportion to how well I was _partnered_." She spoke with some meaning to her last words and was pleased to see the corners of his mouth deepen.

"When was the last time you danced, Margaret? I never got to see you," Mrs. Hale declared with some regret.

"There was a little dancing at Edith's wedding."

"Oh, I see. Something else I missed that day." She turned to Mr. Thornton, saying, "It is very hard, Mr. Thornton, to not be able to see your children growing up and enjoying themselves. It is very hard to feel you have missed so much." She seemed on the brink of tears, and Margaret was ready to spring to her side should she give way to grief. Mr. Thornton could only sit in compassionate silence. He knew that Mrs. Hale was regretting not only the missed past, but the future she would not behold.

However, Mrs. Hale did not succumb to her tears, but shook herself as a thought struck her. "Margaret, will you fetch the music box? It is on one of the shelves over there, I believe."

Margaret hastened to obey the request but with some confusion, wondering what was in her mother's mind. She retrieved the music box and laid it next to Mrs. Hale, who opened the lid. The box itself was not ornate, but the plain design of the wood glowed in the firelight. "Oh, you will need to wind it, Margaret. It has been too long since it was last used."

As Margaret took the key and wound the box, Mrs. Hale explained, "My sister Shaw gave this to us many years ago. I believe she bought it in Switzerland on one of her many travels. It is one of the few treasures we kept when we left Helstone, but I admit I have given it little thought." Margaret finished her task, and once more Mrs. Hale lifted the lid, and the tinkling sound of a waltz echoed through the room.

She smiled at the music for a moment, but Mrs. Hale's wish was not yet accomplished. "Will you dance for me, Margaret?"

"What?" Margaret asked, shocked and bewildered. "What can you mean, Mama?"

"Precisely what I said. I never was able to see you dance, and I wish to now."

"By myself?" she stuttered.

"Oh, no, of course not. You must dance with Mr. Thornton."

His face immediately went red. Although the idea of being able to hold Margaret in his arms appealed to him, there was not a man in England less suited for the purpose of dancing than he. He protested with some energy. "Mrs. Hale, you do not know my limitations, but dancing, I assure you, is one of them. You said yourself there is no occasion to dance in Milton, and that should give you some idea of how little I know about it."

"That is nonsense, Mr. Thornton. It is not so hard to turn about a room," Mrs. Hale responded kindly.

"But I am such a . . . lumbering fellow, I would be sure to do Miss Hale an injury."

Margaret was distracted from her own surprise at Mrs. Hale's request by her amusement at his discomfiture. She had seen Mr. Thornton in many states, even embarrassment, but nothing could compare to this. He was positively squirming and seemed ready to flee. In fact, she was sure she noticed his eyes dart to the doorway more than once during his protestations. But her humor was short-lived when she heard her mother's reply.

"Mr. Thornton, please do this courtesy for a dying woman. I will not ever see my daughter dance in an assembly as I once wished to, but I would very much like to see her dance even a little before I leave this world."

His words died in his throat, sobered as he was at her frank reference to her frailty. No, he would not deny her wish, no matter what mortification he brought upon himself. "Of course, ma'am. Just as you wish." As he stood, he pushed his chair closer to the wall, and Margaret, having no desire to argue further with her mother, did the same. The music box had continued its soft and sparkling music all through the exchange.

Taking her hand in his, he spoke quietly. "I hardly know at all how to do this."

His admission brought a smile to her somber face. "Then I will have to teach you." Without another word, she guided his free hand to her waist and then placed her own on his shoulder. "Now, listen. Do you hear the one-two-three, one-two-three? Just begin with your left foot and I will follow you. We don't have much room, so you do not have to worry about any grand turns. Just step in time to the music."

The hand at her waist gripped tighter, and she felt instinctively the gesture was borne out of nerves. She smiled again, which made him roll his eyes at himself. What a fool he felt, no matter how happy he was for the excuse to be near her. But she tapped the beat softly on his shoulder and bobbed her head with a patient air. And he could not forget that Mrs. Hale was waiting upon them. Margaret's voice came again, gently. "And . . . step-two-three." He followed her ordered time and fortunately did not blunder onto her toes as he had feared he would. Her counting subsided as they continued, and some of his confidence returned. She was right that the restricted space lessened any expectations of his prowess, and he relaxed as he began to enjoy the feel of her in his arms again. He even ventured to bring his eyes up from his feet to her face. She smiled at him, not any longer with amused pity, but with happy delight.

"Yes, that looks very well," Mrs. Hale said, prompting them to break their gaze and look at her. She sat back on the cushions with a mixture of contentment and regret. She had finally witnessed her daughter dancing, but she would never do so again. The thought brought the familiar tears to her eyes, but she did not want to give way to them just yet. She wanted Margaret to keep dancing, and she motioned quickly for them to stop paying her so much attention.

Dixon, curious by the sound of music, took herself to the drawing-room entryway and stood rooted to the spot. Before her was an unexpected tableau, the mistress sitting and watching the young miss dance with that tradesman! What had precipitated such conduct? She would only grudgingly admit how well the pair looked together, her easy grace complemented by his tall and handsome figure. But what could the smiles they bestowed on each other mean? There was more than met the eye in such a scene, and Dixon was not sure she liked it.

Margaret and John gave Dixon no thought at all, unconscious as they were of her arrival. Their smiles were only for each other and when the music box had run its course, they were only recalled to earth by Mrs. Hale making comment on the box needing to be wound again. They separated and he took his turn to wind the box, but they did not dance again, merely returning to their chairs. As the music played on, however, it served as a gentle reminder of their quiet moment of shared pleasure.

* * *

It was becoming harder for him to go several days without seeing Margaret. The work day passed more quickly than ever with the resumption of business, so much so that he was many times surprised by the full-dark around him when he finally allowed himself to rest. He had precious few minutes for himself, busy as he was, and he could hardly justify leaving in the middle of the day for his lessons. But ever since they had danced together and she was in his arms again, he was impatient, and he cast his mind about for any excuse to escape to Crampton.

He did not know what was different about this day, but while each day without seeing her was difficult, this morning had simply been unbearable. He could not concentrate on the matters before him, and his abstracted thoughts turned to her more often than usual. The result of this was that he was running himself mad. He must see her. And he would not even bother with a fabricated excuse as he abruptly stood and made his way out of the office.

Within a few minutes, he was beyond the mill gate, a book tucked in his arm. He had given his impulsive exit that much thought at least, in that if he was unsuccessful in seeing her right away, he could at least prolong his stay and increase any chance of seeing her if he was armed and ready to visit her father. He would not even feel terribly guilty about using Mr. Hale in such a ploy; his eagerness to see her was far too great to give much thought to anything else.

He walked so quickly that he was fairly out of breath when he knocked at the Hales' door. It was only when he heard Dixon's footsteps coming on the other side that he began to think he was perhaps foolish for coming so hastily. What if she should be away for a long while? What if he should not see her? He would have wasted a great deal of valuable time all on a foolhardy whim. But it was too late to change his mind, now Dixon had answered the door and was looking at him askance.

"Is Mr. Hale in?" he asked haltingly, hoping the book he carried would serve as proof of his innocent inquiry.

She only nodded and held the door wider for him to enter. The silent hall did nothing to relieve his awkward state, and he felt constrained under Dixon's watchful eye.

"You'll find Master in his study," she finally said, pointing to the familiar door that stood a little ajar. "I would inform him of your arrival, but I must attend to the mistress."

"Thank you, Dixon, I can manage it myself." He did not dare a friendly look to soften her cold tone, as sure as he was she would only sneer. As it was, she gave him a stiff nod and made her way back up the stairs. This did not bode well for him if Dixon's behavior was anything to judge the rest of his visit by.

He then realized voices were coming from the study. As he walked toward the door, he wondered that Dixon would not inform him of _that_.

" . . . And then there's Hamper, who first tells me of the fool I am, boxes me on the ear, and then hands me some book as though it'll make up for it all – he's lucky I don't spit in his face." The voice was unknown to him, but the tenor of his conversation quickly informed Mr. Thornton of the kind of man sitting with Mr. Hale.

"No doubt Mr. Hamper's way of speaking to you was wrong, but it is unfortunate that you insist on speaking of your difficulties as a war that cannot be gotten over," Mr. Hale's placating voice filtered through the door. "I'm sure that sitting down and talking with one another would be the best way to overcome your differences and be for the mutual interest of both masters and men." Mr. Thornton could not repress a smile at the familiar philosophy and hope he was hearing expressed. "Don't you think a man like Thornton would be open to new ideas and discussion?"

"Thornton!" The stranger's way of spitting out his name let Mr. Thornton know very well what this man thought of that idea. "He's the one who brought in the Irish, which led to the riot that finished the strike! And it's Thornton who hasn't followed up the chase on Boucher, just when we would have thanked him for it. But he steps up, cool as you please, and says he won't press charges on the rioters and those who betrayed us. Just when we committee men wanted him to be hard. I thought he'd have more pluck."

The disgust in the man's tone was clear, and Mr. Thornton began to move away, sure now that his presence would be unwelcome when a new and quiet voice replied.

"Mr. Thornton was right. You are angry at Boucher, Nicholas, and that makes it difficult for you to see that, but he was right. For Mr. Thornton to take further action would not have been justice, but revenge. He knows already how much they will suffer, and he is not so devoid of humanity as you would wish him to be."

His heart swelled at her defense. It could not have been easy for her to do so against someone who must be a friend, judging from the frank way they spoke. But that she would speak up for him made him proud; proud to know he had her commendation and good opinion. She, who had been so opposed to him on the matter of masters and men. But now she was coming to understand and know him; he rejoiced inwardly at such progress. If this gulf between them was being crossed, surely he would not be kept waiting too much longer.

He was startled out of these thoughts by the study door opening wider and Margaret herself suddenly appearing before him. She halted mid-step in her own surprise at seeing him, her jaw dropping a little, but she made no sound. He gave her a self-conscious smile at being caught, and she blushed as she closed the door behind her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked softly, a smile escaping from her surprised face.

"I . . ." he hesitated, unsure if he should admit to eavesdropping. "I came to . . . see your father." He winced at the fabrication, but he had been so surprised at her abrupt appearance that he had forgotten to be bold.

"Oh." She looked back at the door awkwardly. "I'm afraid Father has company, and I'm not –"

"I would not be welcome in such a conversation," he finished for her, confirming that he had been listening for some time already. She ducked her head ashamedly, not pleased that he heard such language used against him, but he was quick to say, "I understand. I would not wish to agitate your guest further."

She nodded in some relief. "I was just going to get the tea tray. Would you care to follow me?" At his nod, she turned away and led him down the hall into the kitchen. She did not speak as they entered and she set the kettle on the stove still silently, embarrassed as she was that he heard anything of what Nicholas said about him. But finally he spoke, feeling it safe to speak above a murmur.

"Does your father often have union leaders for company?" He hoped he did not sound disapproving.

"No, Father has never met Nicholas. But . . ." she bit her lip, "he was in need of some counsel and comfort. His daughter . . . my friend . . ." here she faltered, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Bessy Higgins."

She did not need to say any more for him to understand. Her face was suddenly filled with pain and her hands trembled. He took a step toward her. "Margaret, I'm . . . I'm so sorry." What else could he say? She had lost one of her only friends, and yet it seemed she was the one called upon to offer care and consolation to that friend's father. Who would do so for her? He wanted to be the one to comfort her, but he felt ill-prepared and awkward, no matter his concern.

She blinked in an attempt to clear her eyes of the rapid tears that came in response to his words. They nearly pained her in their efforts to break forth, but she did not want to be weak. "It is better for her now. She is at peace; there is no more pain."

"That does not diminish your own loss," he spoke quietly.

"My loss is nothing to Nicholas and Mary's. They both depended on her so. She was . . ." The tears refused to be hindered and began to spill down her cheeks.

It no longer mattered that he didn't know what to say. In an instant, he was at her side, wrapping his arms around her, the book tossed and forgotten on the table. He could not bear to see her cry, but if she must, he would do his best to comfort her in her grief. Her body shook against him as she gave way to the cries she had not yet uttered. She barely comprehended the kiss he planted on her hair; she was only aware of her need for his strength as she wept into his chest.

"She was such a dear and kind friend to me," she whispered as the racking sobs subsided into quiet tears. "And she suffered so much. I never thought I would not see her again." He still remained silent, but he held her closer, feeling her body calm and hearing her breath steady. He could only hope it was enough as she clung to him. "I will miss her," she said simply. "She was someone I needed here."

Her cries spent, she began to push herself away from him, but he was reluctant to completely detach from her. His hands loosened their grip to allow her to move back, but they were soon cupping her face, his thumbs wiping away the remaining tears. Long after they had been cleared away, he stood like this, holding her face tenderly, his fingers lightly grazing her cheeks and jaw.

Her face softened into a small smile, and she brought a hand to his wrist, holding it in place. "Thank you," she said, a simple enough phrase, but he heard all the feeling and gratitude she was capable of expressing. This was too much for him to resist, and he quickly turned his hand to clasp hers, bringing it to his lips. As he kissed her fingers, he marveled at the privilege of beholding her in her weakness. She was always so strong and sure; the idea that she could trust to him her times of sorrow and pain was overwhelming. He only hoped he was worthy of such responsibility.

"Father will probably be wondering what's become of me . . . and the tea," she ventured. He only nodded, still afraid of speaking and fumbling his way through awkward words of consolation. He did, however, release her hand, leaving her free to finish what preparations she needed to.

Before she picked up the tray, he finally spoke. "I should go. It would not be very fitting for me to stay. I do not wish to aggravate Mr. Higgins any more on such a day."

She walked to him in some concern. "I am sorry you were unable to talk to Father. Did you not hope to see him?"

"On the contrary," he reached out for her hand again, squeezing it gently. "I saw precisely the person I came to see."


	17. Willing and Reluctant Promises

Mrs. Hale's wish to "properly receive" her son was never to be realized. It was not very long before she was confined to her bed, barely able to lift her head from her pillow. Dixon kept a constant vigil at her side, ready to fulfill her every request, should she have any. Margaret was often there, as well, but Dixon's fierce and unshakable devotion to her mistress made it so that Margaret had to attend to other duties, overseeing Martha and seeing to her father's comfort. She tried not to blame Dixon for her nearly permanent position, knowing how little time they all had left. It would not be long before her mother joined Bessy in heaven, and she despaired of Frederick's arriving in time.

She was sitting quietly with her father in the drawing room one morning when Dixon entered. "Mistress would like to see you, Miss. You'd better come quickly."

Margaret was swift to obey, knowing her mother's periods of lucidity were becoming erratic and less frequent. If she wished to see her, she must be quick before this moment passed. When she entered the room, a grave and quiet chill went through her, one that was present every time she looked upon her mother's ghostly pallor. Her eyes were shut, and Margaret was unsure if she had noticed her. As she sat, however, her mother said, "Please leave us, Dixon." Margaret turned to see Dixon, who had evidently been intent on remaining, hesitate and tremble before leaving the room again.

She turned back to see her mother's eyes open, looking straight at her. She leaned in closer, taking a limp hand in hers, and asked, "What do you wish, Mama? What may I do for you?"

Mrs. Hale swallowed painfully, her shallow breath barely enough to support her voice. But now that her daughter was before her, she was determined to say all she wished to, no matter what the effort cost her.

"Margaret . . . there is so little I can do for you now. And soon I will be unable to do anything for you." Margaret little expected this morbid kind of conversation, and only wanted to silence Mrs. Hale if she wanted to continue in this dreary vein.

"Mama, please –"

"No, Margaret, you must listen to me. I want to give you what little counsel I can . . . I will not live to see you follow it, but I can hope you will remember it."

"Of course." It was only now that Margaret was hit by the realization that Mrs. Hale was desirous of speaking her last words. Oh, how could she bear that knowledge, that she might never speak to her mother again?

"I want you to think about your future. Consider it carefully. You will be in Milton for a long time, and you must give thought to how you will live your life here."

Her words came slowly, but Margaret could see that her mother had given much thought beforehand to what she would say. She was surprised that her mother would think of her future in Milton as so certain.

"A mother . . . has many wishes for her children, Margaret. She wants to see them grow and learn and one day have a family of their own. I have seen so little of your life, and I am sorry for it, to have sent you away. I would never have done so if I had known I would not see you as a woman. I will not see you settled with children of your own."

"Mama, please, you must not blame yourself. None of us could have known what would happen."

"Enough, Margaret!" She spoke still weakly, but with such an attempt at vehemence that Margaret was effectively quieted. "Please do not stop me, Margaret. I have my regrets, and I must be allowed to speak of them. I _am_ sorry. I wanted to see you live your life."

Margaret's eyes filled with tears and she bowed her head, but she said nothing in reply, not wanting to frustrate her mother any more.

"A mother wants to see her daughter well-settled, to know she will live comfortably. But more than that, she wants her daughter to be happy. Your Aunt Shaw chose a life that guaranteed she would be well-off and comfortable. I chose a life with a man who made me happy, whom I loved." She paused. "I trust that you will not need to choose between those two options."

Margaret raised her head in some confusion. What did she mean?

"Mr. Thornton is a good man, Margaret."

Her eyes widened and she gasped. Her mother's simple declaration implied so much in relation to her previous words. "What do you mean, Mama?"

Mrs. Hale smiled sadly. "Just that. He is a good man. I would not see it at first. I was wrong. But he has been very good to our family. He has been good to you, too."

"Mama, how could . . . I don't understand," Margaret stammered in embarrassment and bewilderment. How blatant had she been?

"Illness and death make one selfish, Margaret, but not blind. How could I _not_ see you change toward him? And it is clear that he loves you. I could not ignore that."

Margaret blushed. She had wondered about her father seeing through their behavior, but she had never imagined her mother to do so! She was too frail, too ill, to notice her conduct around Mr. Thornton. To have her knowledge revealed after all this time astounded Margaret. She had never breathed a word!

"I did what little I could for you to help him along. I am sorry I could not do more."

"Mama!" she exclaimed in some shock.

"Well, do you think I would have asked _any_ man to dance with you?" she asked in a chiding tone. Margaret blushed again at the memory, taking a whole new viewpoint of her mother's purpose.

"Does Father know, do you think?"

"No. He has the luxury of time to still think of you as a small girl. I have been forced into seeing you as the young woman you are. A young woman who has clearly given her heart away."

"Is that what you see, Mama?" she asked quietly.

"Margaret, you have always known your own mind, and I'm sure you know your own heart. You love Mr. Thornton, do you not?" Mrs. Hale responded just as softly, her tired face somber.

She hesitated. "I . . . I don't know, Mama."

"Yes, you do."

There was silence as her mother searched her face, as Margaret now searched within her heart. Did she truly love him? Had sincere affection and love taken its place alongside the passion and desire he aroused in her? It did not take her long to find her answer. "Yes. I do love him, Mama." Even in the midst of her sorrow, her heart bounded as she admitted it out loud. Her mother only smiled weakly.

"Then do not wait too long for your happiness, Margaret. Think about the future you want, and don't put it off."

Margaret bent her head and kissed her mother's hand reverently, silently promising to remember this final advice. She would never forget it, grateful as she was for her mother's blessing and encouragement.

Mrs. Hale's exhaustion was unmistakable now, but she had another request to make before sending Margaret away. "Margaret, I wish to see Mrs. Thornton. Will you send for her? And quickly?"

Margaret was again surprised, but responded, "Of course, Mama. I will write her this morning."

Mrs. Hale nodded and laid her head back on her pillow. "Thank you, Margaret. Will you send Dixon in now? I'm sure she is on tenterhooks not being here."

Margaret smiled and stood, pausing only to brush her lips on her mother's brow. Sure enough, as she left the room, Dixon was standing just outside the door, fidgeting and pacing. She did not even wait for Margaret to speak before bustling past her. Margaret laughed softly, but sobered quickly in remembrance of the task her mother set her. The note to Mrs. Thornton was soon written and given to Martha to post.

* * *

Margaret expected that Mrs. Thornton would come in the next few days, occupied as she must be. To her astonishment, though, that same afternoon brought Mrs. Thornton to their door. Margaret herself answered the firm knocking at the door, and was more than a little awkward as she led her up the stairs. With her recent self-discovery, she was also now realizing that one day she would be very closely connected to this severe, silent woman, and this knowledge made her manner of expression less than tranquil. Dixon met them on the landing and took Mrs. Thornton the rest of the way, leaving Margaret to wonder what on earth her mother would find to talk about with her.

Knowing she would drive herself mad with curiosity if left to her own devices, she sought out her father in his study. He greeted her kindly and invited her to take a chair. Scarcely had she done so when Dixon entered the room, her mouth firmly set and her face full of purpose.

"Forgive my impertinence, master, but there is a matter on which we must speak. We can no longer delay it."

"Of course, Dixon," Mr. Hale removed his spectacles to look at her more closely. "What is it?"

"It is about Master Frederick. We have received no letter from him, but we are all agreed he is coming?"

"Yes, of course. He would not stay away." Mr. Hale now set aside his book, his attention quickly absorbed by Dixon's concern.

"Then we need to decide what we must do to keep his coming a secret. We cannot wait until he gets here to take precautions."

The familiar anxiety had taken its place in the pit of Margaret's stomach, but she knew Dixon was right. Frederick was sure to arrive soon, and she had neglected this subject far too long. "What do you suggest, Dixon?" Surely she had already given the matter some thought.

"Well, Miss, it will not do to have Martha here, poking her nose about. We very well won't be able to hide him from her. But she has been talking of visiting her mother, and I think it's time we gave her a holiday for her to do so. Today. As soon as possible."

"Will she not think it strange to be sent away so abruptly while Mama is so ill?"

"She may, but she'll hardly give it a second thought. She'll be too glad to get away. The only worry I have is how all the work will get done in her absence."

Mr. Hale had no answer to this, but Margaret soon thought of a solution. "If need be, we can call on Mary Higgins. She needs the work, I'm sure, and she is so quiet that it's unlikely she'll speak to anyone about any visitors we have."

"You're sure, Margaret?" her father asked skeptically.

"Yes, and of course we will not call Frederick by his real name to her – he has been writing under the name of Dickinson, after all, and that will do well if he must be spoken of."

"What of any other visitors we receive? We cannot allow them very far in the house."

"We will show them to the study. Mama's illness must be the excuse, and no doubt Dixon will keep the door like a dragon." She glanced to her with a hint of a smile that Dixon herself took up.

"Oh, they'd have to be clever to get past me. You may depend on that, Miss."

"And then we will not speak of him to anyone, will we?" Mr. Hale said with some faint tones of regret. The burden of keeping his son's existence a secret was one that always pained him. To have him in the house and still be unable to talk freely of him would be doubly difficult.

Margaret felt her father's pain and was desirous to relieve it. An idea struck her in the next moment, however. "Well, perhaps it would be helpful to have a friend in the secret, one we can call on if things become too serious." She saw out of the corner of her eye Dixon pursing her lips, but she ignored it. "What would you say to that, Father? Someone we can trust, who would help us?"

"Who are you thinking of, Margaret?" he asked, doubt ringing in his voice that anybody was so trustworthy.

"I think Mr. Thornton would be willing to be of service to us," she replied, forcing her voice to remain calm. In such a serious matter, she had no desire to excite suspicion on another topic by bringing his name up with too much enthusiasm.

Mr. Hale visibly brightened a little at Margaret's suggestion, giving her a moment of hope that he would agree to the idea, but Dixon would have none of it and was unafraid to say so. "Surely not!" she exclaimed. "He would be the last man to confide such a thing in! It would not do at all!" Her forceful outburst quickly dimmed Mr. Hale's eyes and he resumed his mournful expression. But Margaret would not go down so easily.

"He is our friend, Dixon, and has been very good to us," she said firmly.

"He is a magistrate, Miss Margaret," was the indignant response. "If we tell him we've got a known mutineer in our house, what do you think he will do? His duty, that's what!"

Margaret had been ready to immediately respond, but Dixon's use of the word "duty" made her hesitate. She knew well how important his duty was to him, and it caused her a moment of doubt. But before she could recover from her hesitation, Dixon recognized her opportunity to undermine whatever authority or advantage Margaret had been about to exercise. "He is still enough of a stranger to us, Miss, to not know about Master Frederick at all. Now is not the time to bring somebody else into the secret. It would be only a matter of time until we let all of Milton know if we started making allowances."

Mr. Hale spoke now, despondent and quiet. "Dixon is right, Margaret. If we begin to make exceptions of who may know about Frederick, it will soon be impossible to distinguish between who does and does not know. Better that as few people as possible know."

Margaret tried one last tack. "But, Father, surely it would give you some relief and comfort, to have a friend to confide in."

He sighed. "Perhaps it would, but it is safer for all to remain silent. It is as much for Mr. Thornton's benefit as anyone's. He would be placed in an awkward situation if informed, and it will be better for him to know nothing."

Margaret sat back, recognizing defeat. If her father would not agree to Mr. Thornton's knowing, there was no help for it. She tried not to notice the glimmer of triumph in Dixon's eyes. "Very well. It will remain a secret."

* * *

Later that evening, Margaret was still wrestling with her disappointment. Today she had discovered something wonderful and precious, helped along by her mother's unexpected prompting. She loved Mr. Thornton! She was relieved and excited by the realization, and she was impatient to see him. Why did propriety and convention have to constrain her? There were moments that she wanted to escape the house and seek him out, confess herself, and experience the joy of requited love.

Instead she sat alone, conflicted and sad, for it was not merely convention that kept her from going to him. Not now Dixon had won her victory, binding Margaret to silence. How could she go to Mr. Thornton and tell him all that was in her heart and yet conceal from him her own brother? She knew she would not be able to. Once she began to tell him of her love for him, she would have to be honest with him about everything. He deserved no less from one who professed to love him.

But she had given her word and agreed with her father and Dixon to keep Frederick secret and safe. She could not tell Mr. Thornton about Frederick presently, so she would have to wait to tell him anything of her feelings. She would have to put her happiness on hold, all because Dixon's arguments had carried the day. Why had she ever imagined it was a good idea to keep her attachment to Mr. Thornton private? If she had only told her family of her feelings for him, surely they would have agreed to include him in the secret. For that matter, why had she never told _him_ about Frederick? She'd had so many opportunities to say something about him, but the thought had never occurred to her. She wanted to weep, for her own sake and because of her mother's words to her that very morning. Already she was ignoring her mother's final counsel and sacrificing her current happiness so that Mrs. Hale would be able to see her son in some security.

Margaret could not hate Dixon for her immovable opinion, nor could she hate her father for agreeing. But she wished she could, frustrated as she was that almost immediately after admitting she loved Mr. Thornton, she had made the decision to lie to him. One day she would confess all, and would he ever be able to forgive her for her lack of trust? Even still, Dixon's words of duty dinned in Margaret's ears, and she tried to forget them, tried to push away any hint of doubt. He had done nothing to deserve it. Her heart ached at the thought that he would be hurt by her secrecy, and almost was she tempted to flout her family's decision and go to him immediately, confessing everything and telling him about Frederick, anyway. But could she dare?

Yes, she could dare. She had no reason to hide her feelings for Mr. Thornton from her family. She would tell her father and he must understand how important it was for Mr. Thornton to know about Frederick. He must agree that to lie to Mr. Thornton would be injurious to their current understanding. And with his blessing, she would go to Mr. Thornton. She would tell him everything.

The violent sound of the door-bell interrupted her hasty resolution, and as she moved down the stairs, she vaguely wondered to herself who could be calling at such a late hour. She pulled the door open to see a man's tall figure silhouetted against the street lamps, and for an irrational moment, she half-thought it could be Mr. Thornton. But as the figure turned toward her, she knew it was not him.

"Is this Mr. Hale's?" the stranger spoke, and Margaret knew from his clear voice that he was no stranger.

"Frederick!"


	18. The Storm Breaks

Frederick's presence in the house was a much-needed breath of fresh air. Aside from the joy they all felt at seeing one another after a long absence, he immediately set to making himself useful, his merry spirit infectious as he engaged his father in conversation and helped his sister with various tasks. He would hardly sit still, so eager was he to please his family whom he had not seen for so long. It was too late for him to see his mother the evening he arrived, but he spoke of his anticipated meeting with her with so much vigor, Margaret could not help feeling that his energy would somehow transfer to Mrs. Hale and make her well.

For her own part, Margaret was happy to find a sympathetic brother who only remembered, or professed to remember, the fond times they had shared so long ago in childhood. His solicitude and acts of kindness gave her much relief, and she looked forward to a lessening of her own burdens, as it was clear he was determined to take upon himself some of the cares she had carried. She could almost forget his danger in how happy he was to see them.

The next morning, however, brought back the old fears. Frederick's energy was tempered at the sight of his mother, and the change in him reminded Margaret that all was not well for them. While he sat quietly with Mrs. Hale for many hours, Margaret fretted over every strange and familiar noise. Dixon was true to her word and guarded the front door carefully, but Margaret worried perpetually that Frederick would still somehow be discovered.

Mrs. Hale was able to rouse herself a little when she awoke to find her son at her side. But it did not last long, frail and weak as she was. She said very little, and she smiled feebly. But at least she had this comfort; he was there, and she could depart the world knowing the man her child had become. This small consolation relieved much of her fidgetings for some time and gave Frederick a false hope that she could recover.

Margaret knew this hope well, but she also knew it could not be realized, which was confirmed to her by Dr. Donaldson when he made his visit.

"I am afraid, Miss Hale, that this state of tranquility will not endure for many days, nor even many hours. You will have to prepare yourself."

Margaret had already been prepared for many days, and she only squared her shoulders in response to his kindly instruction. The serenity and strength in her expression impressed to the good doctor once more of the remarkable young woman who carried this family. She thanked him for his visit and saw him out quietly.

Frederick had been concealed in his room during Dr. Donaldson's visit, and this precaution in conjunction with the doctor's words was enough to subdue all remaining cheer. Anxiety and fear combined with grief as the hours passed, as Mrs. Hale slowly became less and less sensible of her son's presence. Her family gathered around her as she slipped into unconsciousness, but she did not know it.

Before the next morning came, she was gone.

* * *

Frederick's collapse into anguish rivalled that of Mr. Hale's, so much so that any hopes Margaret had cherished of his help were done away instantly. Neither were to be consoled, which left her once again with the task of looking after her family. Thankfully Dixon had borne herself up tolerably, so Margaret was not entirely deserted in the wake of her mother's death, but even the faithful servant did not allow her much time to mourn. Dixon's kind words only reminded Margaret of her responsibilities and the arrangements to be made.

But how she longed for some time to give way to her own sorrow. Her father and brother were broken and allowed to remain in such a state, and she felt constricted by being forced to put her feelings aside. What good would even a half-hour's relief do for her! She yearned for such release, and it was now she wanted Mr. Thornton more than ever. His comforting strength and sympathy had been given to her so freely when she cried for Bessy; how much more did she need that strength now? He would not remind her of any duties, but let her weep; he would be the one to take on her burden of care. How she wanted him!

But he could not come to her now. With Frederick's arrival, she had been understandably diverted from her decision to confess her feelings to her father, occupied as she was by Frederick's presence and now by all the duties she had to perform. It would only be selfish of her to force her confession upon her father while he grieved, so there was no hope of being able to divulge their secret to Mr. Thornton. And the more time that passed from her desperate resolution, the more she lost her nerve. Perhaps to tell Mr. Thornton of Frederick would be foolish, after all. She had not given the idea enough thought. And now she was simply too busy to devote any time to the idea, to decide once and for all what was the right course to take.

In any case, no matter what she felt, she knew she had little right to distract her father, so they had to continue concealing her brother. Frederick's violent cries were hard enough to disguise from the next-door neighbors, who may hear him through the thin walls. If Mr. Thornton were to enter the house, it would be impossible to hide Frederick in his crazed state. Margaret must remain alone until he took hold of himself. No one could be allowed in the house until then.

Mr. Hale's grief was not loud or violent, but silent and withdrawn. Margaret made many attempts to speak to him about funeral arrangements, but he would only reply with a shake of his head. It was only as she was leaving the room that he muttered, "Mr. Bell . . . my groomsman . . . he will make arrangements." So writing to Mr. Bell was added to the business Margaret had to attend to.

It was not until the next day that Frederick was able to rouse himself at all. Margaret was relieved that he had recovered enough to at least _want_ to be of use to her, but she was so worn and exhausted, she found she could care little. She had put herself through so much work and toil with little regard to her own melancholy in the last twenty-four hours, that his sympathetic attendance on her felt too late. But she would take advantage of his half-renewed energy so she could rest. Any sleep she had tried the previous night had done nothing to give her any refreshment, and she soon fell asleep on the sofa after he had persuaded her to put her feet up.

She did not know the time when Dixon shook her awake, but she imagined from the changing light in the drawing room that some hours had passed. And from the pinched and worried look on Dixon's face, she could tell that some fresh trouble had come to pass. She sat up instantly as Dixon apologized for disturbing her to see Frederick and her father sitting nearby, an air of tension and uneasiness pervading their bodies. She was quickly alert in response.

"What has happened?" she demanded, looking back and forth between them, but it was Dixon who replied.

"Forgive me, Miss, but as it is my own thoughtlessness that has betrayed us, I should be the one to tell you. Master Frederick cannot be allowed to stay here."

"What do you mean?" Fear gripped her swiftly and forcefully.

"When I was out today, I met a Helstone man; Leonards is his name –"

"Scoundrel!" Frederick interjected fiercely.

"That is true enough, Master Frederick, but let me finish." She turned back to Margaret. "He is as great a scamp as ever lived, and I could never abide him. But I was such a fool to see any old acquaintance from Helstone that I called out his name. And he knew me immediately."

"And does he know about the mutiny?" Margaret asked.

Frederick now responded. "He was on the Orion with me, Margaret. He ran off to sea at some time and plagued the rest of us as it seemed he plagued his own family. He was gone by the time of the mutiny, but he stayed long enough to know our indignation with the captain. He'd have been glad to curry favor with any of our enemies, and if he knew I was within twenty miles of him . . . well, he'd be more than happy to ferret me out to pay off old grudges."

Margaret was horrified that such a person so closely connected to and interested in the affair was near, but before she could speak her horror, Dixon took up the narrative again.

"And he said as much to me in our talk. We were getting quite savage, for all we were so civil, and that was my folly, trying to be even with him by mentioning his father, and sons who make their families blush. To spite me, he began to inquire after Master Frederick, and then had the nerve to suggest we go in partners to trap him! And all the while he was leering at me with that wicked smile in his ugly face."

"But you did not tell him anything about us, about Frederick's being here?"

"Not I. Never breathed a word. But Leonards being here in Milton is enough, and we don't want him poking his nose about."

"I wish I had met this Leonards," Frederick spoke savagely. "I should not have to be driven away before the funeral."

"You must go, though, Fred. It is very bad, but you must," Mr. Hale finally spoke, despondent and weak.

"Well, I've a good mind to face it out and stand trial. But who have I to hand to help? How am I to find witnesses and know how to defend my case?"

In an instant, Margaret felt a new idea come to her. "What about a lawyer? Have you thought about that?"

"What lawyer wouldn't just take me in to give me up?"

"I know a lawyer, Fred, one who is honorable. I can answer for that. And I know others in his profession have spoken highly of his cleverness. He would be willing to try for one of Aunt Shaw's relations. Mr. Henry Lennox; you remember him, Father?"

"It may be a good idea," he agreed, "but we must not keep Frederick in England." On this point he would dwell and not be moved, that his son must get away.

"Lennox – is that Edith's brother-in-law?" Frederick guessed.

"Yes. You could go to London tomorrow by the night train. You can sail just as well from there as from Liverpool. I will write a note to Mr. Lennox to vouch for you. You need not spend too much time there. It is a risk, but it is worth trying." Margaret was firm in her plan, and Frederick did not dare object to a scheme proposed in such a forceful manner.

"I think that would be all right. I can give him my story and a list of names that I can remember from the crew. If I can't stay to find witnesses out, I imagine he can. And I won't stay in London even twenty-four hours; I'll pick up some craft or other to take me off."

Mr. Hale still expressed his fears, as anxious as he was for Frederick's safety, but his children overrode him with their show of confidence. Margaret would need that confidence as she wrote to Henry. To begin a correspondence with him after so long and after their uncomfortable parting was awkward, but it must be done for Frederick's sake. It was just as well that Frederick stayed by her side as she wrote, because it forced her to be to-the-point and not linger too long in fretting over how she would express herself.

Once the note was finished, Frederick resumed some of his cheerfulness. Now that a plan had been made, he saw little use in being anxious until the time came to depart.

"You know, Margaret, while you were asleep I gave Dixon quite a fright. I heard a ring at the front door, so I was being a good boy and staying in my room. But I thought I'd stayed there long enough for whoever had come to complete their business, so I opened the door. But Dixon was in the hall and fairly kicked me right back in. I suppose the tradesman took longer than expected."

"It was Mr. Thornton," Mr. Hale spoke up. "Not a tradesman."

"Mr. Thornton!" Margaret exclaimed. "He was here?"

"Yes, he came to offer any assistance in his power. I was distressed to send him away so quickly, but I was afraid to let him stay. He inquired after you, Margaret, but I did not want to disturb you."

"Oh," Margaret deflated at this unwanted and unpleasant attention of her father's. So he had come! And she had missed him! How unfair it was, and how disappointing. "Well, if he comes again, I will be happy to see him."

"This Thornton has been an agreeable acquaintance?" Frederick asked.

"A very kind friend," Margaret replied quietly. She would not elaborate further; she was too disappointed at having not seen Mr. Thornton. She was having a difficult time already not giving in to her selfish thoughts rather than focusing on her family's needs. If she spoke more of him, she would not be able to stop herself from abandoning them in favor of seeking him out.

She was selfish enough, however, to realize that her purpose for Frederick's leaving was now two-fold: his safety and her ability to see Mr. Thornton at last.

* * *

Mr. Thornton was saddened by the news of Mrs. Hale's passing. He had not known her well, but he had been happy in her service, especially as it brought him closer to Margaret. How _she_ must be suffering! And how his old friend must be enduring such a loss! His immediate desire was to go to them and offer whatever he could for their comfort. He was sure Margaret would be in need of help and strength, and he was more than ready to give her his own. She had been greatly affected at the death of her friend, but how much more bitter this loss must be to her. His heart was afflicted at the thought of all she must be bearing alone. He hated that business forced him to delay going to her; he hoped she would forgive his slow coming.

But then he came and she was not there to receive him. Mr. Hale spoke of her fatigue and his reluctance to wake her, and however much he understood the reason, he was still frustrated at not being allowed to see her. And then there was Mr. Hale's unaccountable behavior. Obviously his wife's death was a severe blow to him, but he seemed almost eager to be rid of Mr. Thornton, at such a time as this, when he must be in need of friends. As much as Mr. Hale had previously depended on him, that was now matched by a nervous melancholy that was very strange. He had even seemed relieved when Mr. Thornton did rise to leave; perhaps he preferred to be alone to grieve.

Such conduct still puzzled Mr. Thornton as he arrived at Outwood station the next evening. He was expecting a shipment and had to oversee arrangements to transport it from the train to the mill. All was in order and he was soon on his way back when the sight of a man and woman stopped him in his tracks. The man was a stranger to him, but he knew the woman's figure very well; indeed, she hardly ever left his thoughts.

They were standing very close to one another, hands locked together, in earnest conversation. He reached a hand to her cheek in a comforting gesture, a gesture that effectively set Mr. Thornton's blood boiling, a heat which only rose as she smiled faintly in response. Before he could try to make sense of the scene, she had thrown her arms around the man in a tight embrace. He nearly staggered at the sight. What could be meant by this? He hated what was unfolding before him, but he could not tear himself away.

Her head turned, and he realized she had seen him out of the corner of her eye. Her eyes widened as she pulled away from the man, clearly stricken at seeing who was observing them. Mr. Thornton did not care that the man followed suit to look at him; his gaze was fixed only on Margaret. But she would not come to him; she stayed exactly where she was. The shock and horror in her face were all the explanation he would receive. He could take no more and fled, hurtling away from the station, haunted by the pair he left behind. What torturous form of betrayal was this?

* * *

Margaret could find no words to describe her astonishment at seeing Mr. Thornton at the station. She had recognized a familiar figure as she hugged Frederick, and anxiety was what initially pulled her eyes to him. And he just stood there, rigid, across the platform, and she felt powerless to go to him, shocked as she was at his presence. Frederick had held her in place, as well. She could only look at Mr. Thornton, mystified, as she beheld the fury and pain in his eyes.

And then he was gone, and she lamented to herself that she had not confided in him when she first thought of it. He could not know what she was doing there or who Frederick was, and she had only herself to blame for the betrayal of his trust. How could she ever explain herself, now she had seen how angry he was?

"Who was that?" Frederick asked fearfully.

"Mr. Thornton." She had to remain calm for Fred's sake; he must not think Mr. Thornton was a danger to him.

"What a scowl he has! I thought you said he was a kind friend."

"He is; something has happened to vex him. Don't judge him too harshly." She felt tears prickle at her eyes in misery at what he must think, but she could not give in to them just yet, not until Frederick was safely away.

A moment later, though, she was frightened out of her threatening tears when a rough hand forcefully pushed her to one side and another man lumbered drunkenly into view. She stumbled and nearly fell to her knees as he grabbed at Frederick, saying in a gruesome manner, "Hale? Is that you? I thought I knew you."

His identity was clear; this brutal man pawing at and grabbing her brother must be Leonards! Margaret's fear was beyond anything she had yet experienced as Frederick wrestled him away and tripped him up, sending him falling down the platform stairs; all the while the train's engine was starting. As the train began to move, Margaret straightened herself enough to see Leonards stagger away and she pushed a dazed Frederick toward the train.

"Run, Fred! You must go now! Get on!"

He jumped into a carriage, and only had time to turn and say, "God bless you, Margaret!" before the train picked up speed and rushed past, leaving her alone on the platform.

She could hardly catch her breath as the great fear subsided. Getting Frederick away this evening had begun so simply and easily. She had hoped that her cares would lessen at his departure. Now she felt faint and sick, knowing her cares were far from over.


	19. Oh, Sorrow, Sing Sorrow

When Margaret arrived back at the house, her father was waiting to spring on her in order to know that all had gone smoothly. Seeing little use in mentioning Mr. Thornton and knowing that telling Mr. Hale of the fight would give him unnecessary alarm, she simply stated that Frederick had gotten on the train and was safely on his way to London. Before leaving the station, she had looked for evidence of Leonards, but he had disappeared. From the direction she had seen him stagger off to, she knew it was impossible that he could have boarded the train to follow Frederick, and he had been in such a condition that she wondered if he would even recollect later that he had seen his prize. No doubt the experience would keep Frederick doubly on his guard while he remained in the country, so she supposed he was as safe as he would have been without the awful fright on the platform.

Her father was relieved by her report, but did not allow his tranquility to stay as he immediately began to fuss again over the addition of London to the plan. "What if he should be delayed? Or recognized? Was seeing Mr. Lennox really worth the risk?"

Margaret did her best to console him and look cheerful and optimistic. In any case, it was too late to change the plan, and her father's fretting was not helping her rattled nerves. "We have done our best to conceal him, Father. We must trust that in so doing we have kept him safe."

"And we must always do so, Margaret. No one can know he was here. It is better to hide him completely, for the protection of all." Mr. Hale seemed rather crazed in his desperate fear, and Margaret, to soothe him, had to agree.

But she was dismayed to speak the words, for they effectively sealed her lips against ever explaining herself to Mr. Thornton. And she was desperate to do so. The entire walk home had been miserable, as she regretted her inaction at the station. Why, when she had seen him, had she stood as though set in marble? He surely must have wanted to know what was taking place, and she could have so quickly erased that terrible look that even now plagued her memory. But no, she had allowed her doubt and fear to hold her back, and she would now pay the price for her folly. What must he think of her now?

The tears sprang to her eyes again, and rather than push them back, she fled the study and hastened to her room. Once there, she lay on her bed, clutching at the covers as the anguish washed over her. For what had she done to Mr. Thornton in the short work of an evening? She had feared and doubted him, even for a moment, and he had done nothing to deserve even the barest distrust.

And she knew now that was what had stopped her mouth, not her shock at seeing him nor her brother holding her fast, but the hint of memory when Dixon had proclaimed he would only be true to his duty. She had been frightened in that horrible moment that Dixon was right. How could she have allowed that idea to take root? She had tried to cast it aside! For she knew that he would have done anything for his duty to _her_, even ignore his other societal obligations. She knew that, and now she must live with the shame that she had lost sight of that truth, even for a split second. He would have done anything for love of her. She nearly hated herself for doubting him.

Remembering the sting of pain and wrath in his face set her crying afresh. For what conclusions must he have come to? She was alone with a stranger, at night, far from home. Perhaps that would have been bad enough, but he had seen her embrace him and then merely stare instead of immediately clarifying and rectifying the situation. What conclusion would _she_ make if their roles were reversed?

Even just imagining him in another woman's arms made her sick with jealousy. How much worse must it be for him, who had actually seen her! She could not even bring herself to be indignant that he would not trust her character in such circumstances, not with how thoroughly her actions could be seen to belie her integrity. She knew if she saw him thus situated, she would be jealous, she would be heartbroken, she would be angry! To have assurances of affection only to see attentions given to another would stir her to fury. She would be confused and wounded by the obvious secrecy being exercised. Even for an innocent reason such as she had for her conduct, she would be hurt if he could not trust her with such a great secret.

And now she was barred from telling him what that secret was, because of her father's fearful command. She had depended on being able to see him and explain herself, but what explanation would he accept now? How could he trust her words of professed love if she refused to be open about the man at Outwood station? How could she appear as anything but duplicitous, now she was imprisoned by silence? She spent a miserable night in tears, despairing that she had lost Mr. Thornton's love in the matter of an instant.

* * *

In truth, her fears of what he must think of her were terribly accurate. He raged and stormed over what he had seen. What kind of witch was she, to encourage and secure him, only to prove her insincerity so blatantly? He could not fathom such a betrayal, such shameful deceit. He never would have believed it of her, this devil in angelic form. She had seemed to him so righteous, so pure, so honest, and yet there was that man! And she had dared to look shocked at seeing him at the station, still feigning a maidenly horror she couldn't possibly feel. No woman who dealt thus could have any proper feeling. What a fool he was to have been taken in by such a tainted soul.

And yet he still loved her – there was no denying that. If he did not, his jealousy and heartache would not tower over every other sense and feeling. He loved that woman who he thought he had known. And that love made a miniscule part of him still crave a reason, a justification, for what she had done. There must be something, he desperately pleaded with himself. She could not treat him thus without explanation. But the evidence of his eyes and the power of his jealousy overrode any rational grasp he made to clear her. There was no way to make it right, no matter how he tried to turn it. She had made him her dupe, and now he would have to wallow in and curse his stupidity.

Oh, she had played her part well. She had been so convincing as the upstanding, shy, moral center who was just as inexperienced in love as he. How much he had believed in her; he had even defended her to his mother's harsh judgments! Could this actress really be the woman he so adored? Was any part of it real?

This was the battle he waged, the staggering revelation of and subsequent belief in her artful performance and the persistent argument and hope that she was actually sincere. He had never before doubted her, never questioned her veracity or her feelings. Everything about her bespoke her genuine affection for him; it had been skin-tinglingly real. That was the woman he knew, the woman he loved. She was not capable of lying in such a manner.

But his jealousy and rage would not allow him to convince himself that she could still be that woman. No, he had seen enough to let him remain angry, heartbroken, and entirely wasted. The Margaret he loved was a phantom, and she was lost to him.

* * *

Mrs. Hale's funeral was a quiet and close affair. The service was cold and brief as read by the officiating clergyman, and Margaret lamented the lack of mourners to pay their respects. She rarely wished to be in Helstone any more, but she could not help thinking of how many parishioners and friends would have gathered together there to honor the vicar's wife. Now there was no one to mourn with them; Mr. Bell had not been able to come because of illness, and Mr. Hale felt deeply the effects of abandonment and isolation.

He could hardly attend to the service, his vacant eyes seeing nothing of what was before him. He repeated the familiar words read by the clergyman mechanically, barely grasping why such words were so known to him and the little comfort they gave. Margaret was called upon to be his guide as he blindly and mutely required her arm once it was all over. She tried to offer such faithful and holy comfort as had strengthened her, but he paid her words no attention, lost in his mind as he was.

Margaret had another reason to be anxious on this sorrowful day, a reason her father had momentarily forgotten in his grief. Frederick had sent a letter received that morning to say that Henry was not in town. His clerk expected him back in two or three days, and Frederick had decided to stay on for an additional day or two on the chance he might see him. Margaret now repented of urging Frederick so strongly to consult with Henry, now such urging had doubtless been part of what kept Frederick in London. At the time, her suggestion had seemed safe enough, but everything that happened afterward made the scheme so undesirable. Now she must wait longer for confirmation of Frederick's safety, and her stomach would remain in knots until said confirmation came.

Such thoughts in addition to this final farewell to her mother distracted her from noticing anybody. But Dixon touched her arm as they left the church, directing her attention to Nicholas and Mary Higgins, who stood nearby. Margaret had some room left within her to be grateful for their consideration, and she nodded to them in acknowledgement of their respect. Mary had been so quiet at the Hale home while under Dixon's direction the past few days, that Margaret had hardly thought she would have told her father about the funeral. Clearly, though, she had, and Margaret smiled sadly at their show of friendship. She could expect no similar attention from the friend she wanted most.

Her attention was so focused on helping her father that she did not realize the friend she so desired _was_ there. Dixon had been lagging as she sobbed and covered her face with a handkerchief, so she did not know Mr. Thornton was close at hand until he spoke to her.

"I beg your pardon, but can you tell me how Mr. Hale is?" He forced himself to include her name. "And Miss Hale, too?"

"They are much as is to be expected," Dixon replied, wiping away her tears furiously. "Master is terribly broken down. Miss Hale bears up better than likely."

He was silent at first, his mind consumed with wondering exactly why Margaret would be bearing up "better than likely". No matter how heartless she had been to him, she must have some consideration for the woman who bore her. But she did not have to bear her loss alone. He had thought at one time that he could comfort and console her, but it was not to be. She had another to be that friend, that comforter she could rely on.

"I suppose I may call on Mr. Hale. He will admit me, I presume?" He must remain cold to her, but he still had a friend in Mr. Hale, and he would not neglect him, though his daughter was so cruel.

"I dare say Master will see you. He was very sorry to have sent you away so quickly the other day, but circumstances were not so agreeable then."

She moved away from him, and he was left to wonder at what Dixon or even Mr. Hale may know. Had they also been concealing that man he saw? Was Mr. Hale so nervous that day he visited because he knew the disappointment and pain sure to come Mr. Thornton's way? He did not want to consider any complicity on Mr. Hale's part in the affair; he _would_ not consider it. Margaret alone was to blame.

Yet even in his enduring anger, his heart panged at the condemnation. There was still that part of him that would not believe she was so fallen and corrupt. He bore himself away quickly, trusting to his rapid stride to mask his tormented face from the crowd.

* * *

It was now a day past when Margaret had hoped to hear from Frederick. Each morning she looked for some word of him and nothing came. Had he decided to stay even longer and was afraid to tell her? Or had the worst happened? She tried to assure herself that if he had been discovered, there would be some news of it, but this did not help to convince her. She wished there were some way she could write to him and tell him to forget that she had ever proposed he delay his going, but she would not have known where to direct such a letter.

Her father, now the funeral was over, had remembered his son and, much like his wife before him, did not forget to ask if any letter had come. And as each day passed, Margaret was finding it more difficult to affect confidence. Her excuses for Frederick's silence were becoming increasingly thin, and Mr. Hale could see it. But rather than rouse himself to soothe his daughter's agitation, he only sank further into the melancholy that had taken root in him since his wife's passing the week before. Margaret would not blame him for his ceaseless misery, but she found herself wishing he would make some effort to console her in turn. After all, he was not the only one to lose Mrs. Hale. She was lonely in her suffering, and she did not have anyone to turn to, now she had driven Mr. Thornton away.

But she had to do her best once more to cover her sadness and make the necessary adjustments as the household adapted to the loss of the mistress. She went about her tasks and duties quietly and with little fuss, strengthening Dixon's belief that Margaret was bearing up rather well under the circumstances. But in truth she was tormented. She had lost a kind friend, she was not allowed to truly mourn her mother, she was bearing the brunt of the responsibility and anxiety of Frederick's questionable whereabouts, and she grieved every hour for John Thornton.

She was trying to push her gloomy thoughts behind her while sitting with her father when the chief object of her grief was announced by Dixon. She had thought the sound of the bell meant some shopman had come, giving the commotion little heed. But now Mr. Thornton was in the doorway, and the old ache in her chest returned on beholding him. He was soon before Mr. Hale, wringing his hand in unspoken sympathy. The sight brought her to tears that did not spill over, both grateful that he would at least remember her father and desolate in the certainty he would show her no such kindness.

He did not want to look at her when he first entered the drawing room, but he knew he could not in all decency avoid her when his avowed purpose was to condole with the family. He had prepared himself for two days to see her, and he would not fail himself now. After greeting Mr. Hale, he turned to her. He saw immediately that Dixon's report of how Margaret fared could not be further from the truth. Her pleading eyes were dimmed with unshed tears, and her face expressed so much lonely suffering, he did not resist the urge to walk to her and take her hand in his. He could not help it; she looked so forlorn. This woman who felt and bore so much was the woman he loved, and he sorrowed and blamed himself for forsaking her.

"Miss Hale," he spoke softly and tenderly. "I am very sorry for the loss you have endured. If there is anything I or my family may do to help, please know we are at your service whenever you need us." He spoke and held her hand so gently that Margaret's tears did burst through, and she turned away so as not to be overwrought in her father's presence. She had not expected his caring words or friendly look, little as she felt she deserved them. But he was more generous than she had thought, and she hated once more how ill she had judged him. It was all she could do to not go to his arms and find comfort in his embrace.

As she turned from him, he was at first tempted to touch her arm and bring her back, but almost immediately that haunting image from the station reappeared in his mind. How could he have forgotten it? He straightened and returned to sit by her father, reminding himself that if she suffered alone, it was all her own doing. He would not comfort her with his love, and clearly the stranger had abandoned her, even during her great need. He would not feel sorry for her.

And yet, as he spoke to Mr. Hale and could not stop looking at her sitting quietly, he saw once more his Margaret, sorrowful and full of real and sincere feeling. This woman who sat across the room was surely not the deceitful enchantress his jealousy told him she was. But what explanation had she to offer? What was the true story behind the events at Outwood station? For the first time, he wanted to ask her what it was he did not know, what more there was that she could tell him, what danger kept her from confiding in him. But his warring sides would not allow this brief rational desire to linger, not while the image of that man remained. As long as she was silent and unwilling to be honest with him, he would not be the first to speak, continuing to perceive her as the unattainable actress.

Presently Dixon came to the door, saying quietly to Margaret, "Miss Hale, you are wanted." She looked so disturbed that Margaret immediately quailed under the thought that Frederick was in danger; she left the room hurriedly.

"What is it, Dixon? Is it about Fred?" she asked once they were safely removed from the room.

"No, Miss, but it is a police inspector wanting to see you."

This did nothing to dissolve Margaret's fear, and she stepped to the study door with a feeling of foreboding.

* * *

**A/N:** So it's clear I've got angst here, and I know some of you are not happy about it - believe me, I don't write angst for angst's sake. Our lovebirds are victims of terrible timing. I promise I didn't try to drag it out, and I hope that the resolution is all the sweeter because of this drama. I actually kind of have a purpose for all this, and I don't know if it will be clear in a couple chapters or not, but . . . my story, my rules, I guess. Don't give up! And don't hate me! I still welcome your reviews.


	20. A Reputation at Stake

Before entering the study, Margaret paused, her hand on the doorknob. She did not want to tremble before the police inspector, whatever his purpose in being there. Steeling herself, she opened the door, putting on her familiar composed look.

The inspector was almost daunted by that haughty expression. He was unused to such a lady, who was so controlled and gave no indication of curiosity or alarm. She said nothing, which was just as well for him, awkward as his business was.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but my duty obliges me to ask you a few plain questions. A man has died at the Infirmary, following a fall that took place at Outwood station on Thursday evening, the twenty-sixth. His name, we have discovered, was Leonards."

Leonards, dead! Would her troubles never cease? Margaret forced herself to remain calm.

"At the time, the fall did not seem of much consequence," the inspector continued. "The doctors determined that it was rendered fatal by a bad drinking habit and some internal complaint."

So Frederick could not be blamed for his death, at least, little as they had thought his tumble could kill him. Margaret breathed a little easier. But despite her resolve to be calm, she could not help tensing. No matter Frederick's blamelessness in the tragedy, she could not divulge his presence. She had promised her father, and what was more, she would not risk Frederick's safety while he could still be in the country. What might this inspector have the power to do if given such knowledge; how quickly could he inform associates in London to be on the search for Frederick Hale? She would not affirm that he had been at the station. The inspector had paused to observe her, but she only nodded and said, "Go on."

"There will have to be an inquest. There is some evidence that suggests that the scuffle that caused the fall was provoked by the man's drunken impertinence to a young lady, who was walking with the man who pushed him. There is some reason to believe that lady was you."

"I was not there," Margaret immediately replied. She had not thought that her identity would be investigated in the case! But if she was going to protect Frederick, she had to conceal herself, as well. Her expressionless face did its duty, while she struggled within to maintain it. "Frederick!" she thought. "What have I not sacrificed for you!"

The inspector hesitated before her impassive look. The evidence that brought him here was already vague enough. He had been directed to her door on the word of the station master who heard from a porter who had it from a grocer's assistant that the woman in question was Miss Hale. He had spoken in person to the assistant, who affirmed her identity, as her family dealt at his shop, but that chain could easily be broken. Leonards himself had been too tipsy and far-gone by the time he was taken to the Infirmary to give an accurate account of his fall. At times he had almost seemed sensible, which gave them enough cause to send for a magistrate, but by the time _he_ arrived, it was too late. And her unflinching denial gave him more pause.

"I have your absolute denial that you were at the station?" he felt compelled by his duty to ask again.

A sharp pain went through Margaret at having to repeat the falsehood. "I was not there," she said firmly and decisively. She could not waver now.

He sighed. "I hope you will not think me impertinent, but I may have to summon you to appear on the inquest, to give an alibi. My witness may persist in deposing to your presence. It is unlikely, but I hope you will forgive the necessity; I must do my duty."

She merely bowed her head and directed him to the door. She did not trust herself to speak as she prayed that whoever had seen her would accept her denial. She did not know that the inspector's wishes tended in the same direction. She may be unaware of the possible scandal inherent in a well-bred lady appearing on an inquest, but he was all too aware. Dispute of identity was very awkward, and one did not like to doubt the word of a respectable young woman.

Margaret did not return to the drawing room after the inspector's departure. Feeling faint with worry, she sank into the nearest chair in the study, trying to recover her strength. What had she done? She hated the lie and the events that made it necessary. But she had lied to save Frederick. She could not regret that. She had gained him time by not giving him away. But how would she withstand another test of her story?

She did not know how long she sat there, but she did not move until distracted by Dixon, who had come to check on her after seeing Mr. Thornton out. She felt keenly the reminder that the inspector was not the only one misled by her. But at least Mr. Thornton did not know her conscious and deliberate lie. She could not bear the idea of sinking even further in his estimation.

* * *

He had stayed much longer than he intended to. Mr. Hale had entreated him to remain, and he felt that his company did some good for the poor man. But he wondered that Margaret did not return after so long. She had left so quickly, and his curiosity was piqued at what could have called her away. But as much as Mr. Hale clearly wished for his continued company, he had to return home, taking his leave regretfully but with a promise he would return soon.

He had not gone ten steps in the street when he was stopped by that same police inspector. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Thornton, but I wanted to speak with you."

Recognizing him, he replied, "Oh, Watson, isn't it? How do you do?"

"Well, sir, thank you, but it is on a matter of business I made bold to speak to you. I believe you were the magistrate who attended to take down the deposition of a man who died in the Infirmary last night."

"Yes, Leonards, wasn't it? A drunk, obviously, but met his death by violence." Watson nodded to affirm the information. "One of my mother's servants was engaged to him, I believe, and is in great distress. What about him?"

"Well, sir, his death is oddly mixed up with somebody in the house I saw you come out of – a Miss Hale."

Mr. Thornton turned to face him sharply, her name quickly removing any lethargic feelings about a case he had cared nothing about. What had _she_ to do with it?

"I have a chain of evidence that links her to the gentleman who may have caused Leonard's death – the push at Outwood station, you see. But the young lady denies she was there at the time."

"Miss Hale denies she was there?" he repeated. Could it be . . . ? "What evening was this? What time?"

"About six o'clock, evening of Thursday the twenty-sixth."

He was silent. Here he was, a witness to her presence there, and he said nothing. Why would she have lied to a police inspector? He could not understand such an action; what was she hiding? What could have possessed her to put herself in such a tenuous position?

"There will be a coroner's inquest, and I've got a witness who's pretty positive he saw Miss Hale at the station, walking about with a gentleman around that time. I've just returned from seeing him and telling him of her denial, but he's still sure it's her. And seeing you come out of the very house, I thought if you were a friend of the family, you might . . . well, you understand the difficulty with dispute of identity."

How well did he understand. Margaret was in some danger. "And she denied being at the station!" he muttered more to himself than to Watson.

"Yes, sir, twice over, distinct as could be. But seeing you, I thought I might ask your advice, seeing as you were also the magistrate in the case."

He turned again to Watson, saying firmly, "You were quite right. Don't take any steps until you have seen me again. I will not delay you long."

Watson nodded and shook his hand before departing, and Mr. Thornton made his way quickly to the mill, his mind reeling. Once more his jealousy took hold as he thought of the falsehood Margaret had trapped herself in, all for the sake of some unworthy man who left her alone in a time of crisis. How much she was willing to risk for this stranger, even her noble and honest character!

But no, he stopped himself. He was trying to remember that she was not honest, was not noble. She would have trusted the truth to him if she were, if she remained true to the woman he once thought she was. But he had seen a glimpse of that sincere and virtuous woman only today. Was she still that woman? And if she was, why did she take such a risk by lying about Outwood station? Once more the thought occurred to him that she was in some peril, and the lie was a necessity for protection. But from what? And for whom?

"Margaret!" he cried within himself. "If only you have confided in me! If only you could have loved me! I would never have asked you to commit perjury or sacrifice your soul. Why could you not trust me?" Even his resentment would not suppress the certainty that she was in trouble, some danger that precipitated her falsehood, and he made his decision.

There should be no inquest. He would save her. He would keep her from public shame, no matter how she might despise him. He would prove his worth, a better worth than he felt, by protecting her.

* * *

Margaret was beginning to grow frantic with worry. Still no word from Frederick, and the inspector had not returned. For all she knew, he would turn up at midnight to demand an alibi she could not honestly give. Once more she kept her father ignorant of her trouble, and even Dixon did not know all of the particulars of the interview. Would this torment plague her throughout her life? Instead of coming and going, her troubles only heaped upon her, heavier and higher.

It was past nine o'clock when the door-bell rang, and she hurried to reach the door before Dixon, eager for some knowledge of her fate, whatever it may be. The inspector stood before her and she let him into the study, saying, "You are very late. Well?"

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I had other people to see and other business to conclude; otherwise I would have been here sooner. There will, after all, be no inquest in the Leonards case."

Margaret felt the weight on her lift. "So there is to be no further inquiry." She tried not to show her relief at this small mercy, but she was sure that a tiny hint of it escaped in the breathlessness of her reply.

"Yes, I've got Mr. Thornton's note about," he began searching through his pockets.

"Mr. Thornton!" She found it difficult not to cry out his name. "What has he to do with it?"

"He's a magistrate in the case and an acquaintance of mine. I told him of the difficulties," he said, handing her a folded piece of paper. She took it with a trembling hand, thunderstruck as she was at this latest revelation.

The note read: "There will be no inquest. Medical evidence not sufficient to justify it. Take no further steps. I will bear the responsibility."

Her voice faltered as she thanked the inspector, handing the note back to him. "You told Mr. Thornton that I was not there, at the station?" She was afraid to hear the answer, but she needed to know for certain.

"Of course, ma'am. I'm sorry to have troubled you. The witness was so positive; now he knows he was mistaken. He hopes he hasn't caused offense."

What cared she for this witness, whoever he was? The brief light she had beheld in the wake of the halted inquest was harshly extinguished by the knowledge of Mr. Thornton's involvement. Now he knew for sure of her iniquity. At least before it had only been the appearance of deceit, but now she was a proved liar in his eyes. She could have borne public shame, but not further abasement before him. She was so overcome by her disgrace that she forgot to be grateful that he had saved her.

Long after the inspector left and she had told Dixon that the matter had been resolved, she lay awake in her room, fighting the emptiness that threatened to consume her. He had just cause to feel nothing but contempt for her, he who had professed so sincerely and openly his love. It seemed so long ago that he had made his declaration, that she had assured him of her own feelings, and that they had stolen those delicious moments in each other's arms. Now she felt many years older, and there was nothing in her future to bring her any joy. Not now that he would most certainly not be in it.

Sleep came eventually, and she awoke late, her father having been conscious and concerned enough to give orders she not be disturbed. She barely heard a soft knock at the door and was surprised. Dixon hardly ever knocked, and when she did, it was a forceful boom immediately followed by her entrance. But this morning Margaret had to call out her permission for entry, and the door opened to reveal Mary Higgins instead of Dixon.

Margaret managed a smile in order to put her at ease. "Good morning, Mary."

Painfully shy, Mary was wary of speaking, and hurried through what she must say. "Miss Dixon was busy, but she asked me to give you this. Said it would do you good." She awkwardly stepped into the room and handed Margaret a letter. It took only a passing glance to see it was from Frederick, and Margaret was keen to read it, but for Mary's presence. She felt she must be alone to open the letter, and Mary had not moved. She clearly did not know what she was about outside the kitchen, and Margaret pitied her discomfort and put aside the letter briefly.

"Thank you, Mary. Tell me, how is Nicholas?"

Mary shuffled her feet as she answered. "Oh, he's been brought low again by news of Boucher. You would not know this, Miss, but Boucher was found dead yesterday – drowned."

Margaret's heart sank at such tragic news. "Oh, Mary, I'm sorry. How is Mrs. Boucher?"

"Not well, Miss. Neighbors find it likely she won't last too long now her husband's gone."

"What will become of the children?"

Mary only shrugged, seeming embarrassed at such a question, and Margaret assumed she had overstepped her bounds. She thanked Mary again and sent her on her way.

Alone again, she opened Frederick's letter. It was dated two days before, which made her look closer at the envelope. Sure enough, there was the mark, "Too Late," meaning some careless porter had forgotten to post it promptly. So Frederick had written when he promised! And he had been gone and safe yesterday when she felt herself forced into deceit. How cruel her life was turning out to be.

She read over Frederick's hasty words, remembering little about what he said about his meeting with Henry. She only cared for the lines that told her of his quick departure; indeed, he had written only a handful of minutes before the packet ship would sail. There was that comfort at least, and her father would be glad of it.

She allowed herself to smile fondly at Frederick's kind words about their having seen each other again. No matter the dreadful circumstances, to meet again after so many years had been a blessing. She lingered over the lines he wrote about their mother. "She was a good woman, and I'm glad I got to see her at the last. I will always thank you for that, Margaret, fulfilling her last wish and words."

Her brow furrowed. Yes, she had delivered Frederick to her mother, but as far as she was concerned, she had not fulfilled her mother's last wishes. Her actions following Mrs. Hale's passing had all been to the opposite effect her mother intended her to take. She had taken steps to ensure that she would avoid her happiness, rather than seek it out. Would her mother be glad, knowing her final counsel had been disregarded?

Margaret raised her head to the light streaming through the window, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. She had ignored her mother's words, but in that instant, she decided she would do so no more. She would no longer put off her happiness; she would dare the world and chase it somehow. No matter what her father wished or what Frederick urged, she would not remain silent. She had done so for too long already.

Yes, she would tell Mr. Thornton what she should have a week, two weeks, a lifetime ago. She would tell him everything about Frederick, she would explain what motivated her actions, and she would confess to him of all she felt. She did not dare hope that he could still love her, but she trusted that some day he would forgive her. She would live free from this guilt. She would have a clear conscience before him. Even if she could not enjoy happiness with him, she could at least be happy knowing she had told him the truth.


	21. Pride Goeth Before the Fall

Making a decision is easy. Carrying it out is far more difficult. Margaret made this discovery as she tried to find a way to escape her home, even for a few short hours. But it seemed that both her father and Dixon were conspiring against her, however innocently they held her captive. Dixon was continually searching her out, having another inquiry about the house and every-day decisions to be made there. Mr. Hale, having recovered somewhat at the news that Frederick was safe, was determined to keep Margaret close. Between the two of them, Margaret had not a minute to herself.

She only kept herself from bursting by reminding herself that, to them, she was all they had left. They both depended on her, and she had to be sensitive to their needs. But after two days of stifling company, she feared she would run mad. She was relieved when Dixon came to the drawing room to announce with a disapproving scowl, "That man Higgins is here." Any variety was welcome to Margaret, so she gladly replied, "Show him up, Dixon."

"If you saw the state of his shoes, I'm sure you'd say the kitchen was the fitter place," she exclaimed in indignation.

"He can wipe them, I suppose," Mr. Hale said reasonably. He was no less eager for company now, the solitude he had imposed on himself beginning to lose its savor. He had expected Mr. Thornton to return, but as yet that had not happened. Dixon raised an eyebrow at his response, but she bustled away silently. Soon Nicholas was up the stairs, and Margaret stifled a laugh at seeing him in his stocking feet.

"Your servant, sir," he said gruffly, though his voice was a little quieter than she was used to hearing. He nodded to her. "Miss."

Mr. Hale was so glad of the company that he even went so far as to stand and shake Nicholas's hand in greeting. His friendly manner subdued Nicholas even further, and Margaret thought she could guess what was bothering him. "Mary told me the other day about Boucher. I am sorry for it, Nicholas. But I hope you are not over-troubled by his death."

He wondered at her perception, but did not hesitate to answer. "I don't see why I shouldn't be over-troubled, as hard on him as I was. I should have guided him to a better end, but I set him off the road. I must answer for him."

"Surely you do not blame yourself for his death," Mr. Hale said with some concern.

"Not exactly, sir, no, but I could have done more for him. Miss Margaret _and_ you can answer for my temper, and I was not afraid to use it on him." He looked ashamed and awkward, but visibly shook himself. "But there's no use wishing for what was, and I am willing to take the responsibility I should. And that's why I'm here. I've been looking for work."

Such news took both Mr. Hale and Margaret by surprise, knowing how opposed Nicholas was to returning to work for the very masters he had fought against. But Nicholas's quieter tone kept them silent and allowed him to continue.

"I've been keeping a civil tongue in my head, not minding what anybody says back to me. And I'm doing it for Boucher's sake. Well," he winced in correcting himself, "not for his sake, but his children. That's my responsibility now he's gone. But there's not work here for a man such as me. Hamper knows I'm a good worker, but he wouldn't have someone in his mill like me, nor would any of the masters. I'm a trouble-maker in their eyes. And that's why I'm here, sir, to see if you could help me."

Mr. Hale asked, confused, "I would be glad to, but how?"

"Miss there has often talked about the South. I don't know how far it is, but if I could get down there where wages are good and everyone friendly-like as she says, maybe you could help me to find work there."

Margaret was astonished at such a proposal. For Nicholas to uproot himself and, still more, to humble himself enough to ask for help was unheard of. She could hardly believe what he was willing to do for the sake of those poor children. Now she understood Mary's embarrassment when she had asked about them; Mary knew what her father would do and was afraid of sounding boastful for her father's sake as he went beyond his duty to care for the children. What an admirable thing Nicholas was willing to do! But for all that, Margaret knew one thing above all.

"You must not go to the South," she interjected. "You could not stand it. I owe it to you to tell you this, Nicholas, for it's my own fault you feel it could be a better place for you. But you would not bear the dullness of life; it would eat you away like rust. I beg you, think no more of it."

Nicholas looked dismayed at her protest, but nodded his head slowly in agreement. There was nothing to stop his gloomy look, though, as he felt there was no hope for him to find work anywhere.

But the wheels in Margaret's head had not ceased to turn. "Nicholas, have you been to Marlborough Mills for work?"

He snorted. "Ay, I've been to Thornton's. The overlooker bid me go, and was none too friendly about it."

"I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton. Would you try again? I should be so glad if you would. And speak to Mr. Thornton. He would judge you fairly, I'm sure of it."

Nicholas narrowed his eyes at her request. She had spoken in Mr. Thornton's defense before, and with the same surety. For her to do so again brought some suspicion to his mind of what exactly she thought of Mr. Thornton. Though she did not flinch from his penetrating stare, the thought had taken hold, and he would suspect that there was more than met the eye in her speaking for him. How a man such as that could catch the fancy of a girl like Miss Hale he did not know, but if she did commend and admire him, perhaps Mr. Thornton was not completely bad.

He sighed. "All right, I'll do it for your sake, Miss, but I cannot promise he'll be as glad of the notion as you may think."

* * *

Mr. Thornton was having trouble tying his cravat again. It had been giving him difficulty for many days now, but it was being especially stubborn this morning. He irritably yanked it off and began again, muttering curses under his breath. His stormy countenance had not escaped his mother's notice at breakfast, and she was curious what this innocuous item of clothing had done to earn his enmity. Although she had heard enough from her servants to guess at what was making him behave like a disturbed beast.

"Can you stop for a moment, John? I want to speak to you."

He turned to her, his eyebrows low and brooding, but he sat directly, throwing the cravat aside with a vengeance.

"It's about Betsy. She says she must leave us, that her lover's death has so affected her spirits that she cannot work." He shifted about in the chair but still said nothing. Mrs. Thornton drew a deep breath. "She also tells me something about your Miss Hale."

He flinched and jerked, as though attempting to brush off a persistent fly. "She is not _my_ Miss Hale, Mother."

His unmasked distress made her confident he knew of what she might say, and she was tempted by his petulance to stop. But she wanted to be certain he was clear of that woman and so continued. "Betsy says the night on which her lover was last seen at the station, Miss Hale was there, walking about with a young man who Betsy believes killed him by some push."

He stood and began to pace. "Leonards did not die of a push. I asked the surgeon myself. He told me there was an internal complaint, made worse by the fact that Leonards was a drunkard."

"So you know all of this!" she exclaimed. He had made no denial of Miss Hale's presence at the station; so what did she care for the dead man? His case was negligible in comparison to Miss Hale's behavior. "You know that Miss Hale was there at the station with another man."

He stopped his pacing and looked directly at her. "Yes, Mother. I know."

"Then she has abused and mistreated you shamefully. How could she be such a deceitful tart to you?"

"No, Mother, no! I will not speak against her, and I will not let you do so." He knew how hypocritical he sounded, as he had not hesitated to think in such a way about Margaret himself. But just as he could not bear to see her publicly shamed, he could not stand to hear his mother's venomous words. She did not struggle as he did; she had no opposing side within that cried out Margaret's blamelessness.

Mrs. Thornton would not be stopped, however. Her suspicions about Miss Hale were viciously confirmed, and she could not allow her son to lie back and accept such treatment. "Not speak against her? John! She drew you in, made you offer to her, and has strung you along like a puppet for her own amusement! Her pretended regard does not deserve your defense, as she must have intended to play you off against this very man! And who knows that there are not others she has deceived and toyed with in a similar manner?"

"Stop, Mother!" He was thunderous. "You do not know everything. You cannot say such things about her."

"You do not know everything, either," she countered with some heat. "You must believe this man is another lover."

His fury died down by the sudden pain at her choice of words. "I do not know any more, Mother. At times I do believe he is her lover. At others . . . I cannot say. But despite everything I do not know, there is something I believe."

"Oh, and what may that be?" she asked contemptuously.

"I believe that she is in some difficulty, some trouble, and that has led to her other actions."

"And that difficulty has caused her to take on another lover, to treat you as though you were less than the dirt under her feet." She could not be forgiving to Miss Hale, a woman who had broken her son so thoroughly. How could he defend her and believe her in some dire strait when it was obvious she was nothing but a conniving jezebel?

He did not say anything to her, but returned to the mirror with the cravat. He wished the subject closed, but she was not done. It was with a grim satisfaction that she said, "Well, I suppose I will have to go and speak with her about her conduct."

He whirled. "What?"

"I made a promise to her mother that I would not allow her daughter to go wrong without advising and remonstrating with her. I shall certainly let her know my opinion." She could not hide a ferocious glee at the prospect of setting Miss Hale down.

He immediately saw what was in her thoughts. "Mother, no. She is in need of guidance and counsel, but not the kind you would offer, not in your current mood."

"I must keep my word to Mrs. Hale, John!" she said obstinately.

"But I'm sure Mrs. Hale did not mean to leave Margaret open to insult. She is in need of a friend, someone who will advise her in kindness and gentleness. If you will not speak to her in such a way, if you are using your promise as an excuse to belittle and shame her, it is better that you do not go at all."

"Are you forbidding me to go, John?" she exclaimed in chagrin.

"I would not dare forbid you from doing anything, Mother," he seemed to spit out her title in his now-quiet wrath. "I am only telling you what I think. It would be better for you to stay away from her." With that said, he stalked out of the room, and Mrs. Thornton was left reeling at his coldness.

Her decision was made. She would not go.

* * *

Mr. Thornton's already-sour mood, made worse by the confrontation with his mother, did not improve as the hours passed. He was ashamed of his anger at his mother, but he was more confused at his defense of Margaret. Did he not blame her in the same way his mother did? Was he not rightly jealous and broken over what she had done? Yes, he was, but every minute that passed, it seemed, the part of him that insisted on trusting her became stronger and more powerful. There were moments he almost let himself believe in that hope. But then the memory of her in that man's arms would force its way in again, and he would furiously put down the hope, knowing all the while that it would reassert itself soon enough.

He was returning to the mill after conducting some business when a rough man stepped in his path just outside the gate. He pulled up abruptly and recognized him, as this man had been waiting outside the gate when he had left. "You're here still?"

"Ay, sir. I must speak to you."

His crusty voice sounded familiar, but Mr. Thornton could not place where he might have heard it. He had no objections to speaking to the man as yet, so he beckoned with his head, saying, "You'd better come in, then."

As the man followed him silently, his overlooker stopped him in the yard, muttering, "You should know, sir, that man is Higgins, one of the union leaders." Mr. Thornton looked back at him sharply, knowing the name as he did. Higgins had a reputation among the masters as a firebrand; what could he want here?

He did not order Higgins away, but studiously ignored him the rest of the way to his office. When he did look at him after seating himself, Higgins had removed his cap and was looking uncomfortable. "Well, sir, what do you want with me?"

"My name is Higgins –"

"I know who you are," he interrupted. "What do you want?" Once more the voice had a familiar sound to it, but he did not want to be distracted with trying to place it.

"I want work," was the simple reply.

"Work! You've got a nerve." After all men like him had done, how he could dare ask for work was nothing short of impudent.

"Hamper will speak to my being a good hand."

"I don't think you want me to ask Hamper for what he thinks of you. I might hear more than you like."

"I keep no secrets about the kind of man I am; you would not hear anything I wouldn't tell you myself."

"So then you shouldn't be surprised that I would rather set fire to the cotton-waste. How do I know you wouldn't just make trouble? Or just save up money against another strike?"

"I'd be thankful to be able to do that, but I need work for another purpose. For the family of a man driven mad by those Irish workers of yours. He destroyed himself and left a family to be cared for, and I'm the one to do it."

Mr. Thornton snorted. Likely tale this man had. "If I were to believe your story, and I can't say I'm inclined to, I'd suggest you turn to something else. Don't stay in Milton; you're too well-known here."

"If it were warmer, I'd be glad to take Paddy's work and never see Milton again. But it's winter and those children will starve."

Mr. Thornton's limited patience had already been stretched to the brink this day, and he did not have time to listen to the invented account of a man who would only cause trouble. "I've given you my answer; there's no use asking again. I'll not give you work."

Higgins smirked, an expression that was wholly unexpected. "I knew I was wasting my time. I was asked to speak to you by a woman, one as seemed to think you'd a soft place in your heart. But she was mistaken. And I'm not the first to be misled by a woman." He nodded curtly and was out the door before Mr. Thornton could respond. What woman would ask a union leader to come to him for employment?

Immediately an answer came to him, and that answer also placed where he had heard that man's voice and name before. Only Margaret would think to put two such opposing forces together. It was so like her. And she had recommended him to Higgins on account of a "soft spot" in his heart? Well, he had made no bones about showing her his heart, but for her to make such a suggestion after all that had happened since Outwood station was confusing.

If she thought to send Higgins his way, maybe there was something to the man's story. And if that were true, how ashamed he was for dismissing him so shortly. He had been hasty to judge because he was in a poor mood, and he should have put that attitude aside and judged with disinterest. He stood and went to the gate, inquiring of the porter how long Higgins had been waiting to speak to him.

"He was outside the gate before I arrived at eight o'clock, sir. That was five hours ago now."

Five hours! That was a long time to wait for anything, doing nothing but hoping and fearing. For him to wait so long in combination with Mr. Thornton's belief in Margaret's involvement, struck him even more with the thought that Higgins had been sincere.

An hour was sufficient for him to make inquiries and verify that Higgins's story was, in fact, true. It was noble of him to do such a thing for another man's family, but Mr. Thornton's surprise was the greater in discovering the history and quarrel between Higgins and Boucher. The simple generosity of Higgins was enough to convince Mr. Thornton to give him a fair chance, and he was soon at his door in Frances street, ready to beg his pardon for his temper and to offer him work.

As he approached the house, the door was hanging open, children chasing each other in and out freely. These were the children Higgins had spoken of, no doubt. Once again he regretted his impatient and ill mood. But he did not regret it very long, for he heard a well-known voice within the house through the open door.

"You told him I sent you?" He had not heard her soft and clear voice for a long time, considering she had not said a word to him when he had visited her father. He closed his eyes briefly, her voice recalling to him her sweetness and compassion. He hadn't realized how fiercely he felt the loss of hearing her speak, and his heart pricked at him painfully as he listened. Why could he not bring himself to reason and completely persuade himself that she was a fraud?

"I don't know if I called you by name," Higgins was saying. "I don't think I did. I said a woman had advised me to come and see if there was a soft place in his heart. But pay it no mind, Miss. He wasn't over-civil to me, but I had no high hopes as you seemed to."

He stepped inside the door as she said, "I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's. I am disappointed in him." Her back was to him, but as Higgins was facing her, he saw Mr. Thornton the instant he set foot inside. He jerked his head up in confused astonishment, and she shifted to see what had drawn his attention so suddenly. Her face went red at seeing Mr. Thornton and she shot to her feet. It seemed she did not know where to look, as her face turned from him to Higgins to the floor and back. He was unsure of what to say in her presence, and there were several silent and uncomfortable seconds before she mumbled, "Excuse me," and rushed past him out the door.

He watched after her for a moment once she was gone, and so missed the amused smirk Higgins wore. Mr. Thornton did not know that her embarrassment and his lingering gaze were unconsciously proving a suspicion the shrewd workman had been pondering. But he had a set purpose in coming here, so he turned back to Higgins quickly, or at least he thought he was quick.

"So Miss Hale was the lady who asked you to come to me," he said, his voice a little more tremulous than intended. He coughed in an attempt to clear and calm it. "You might have told me."

"And you'd have been a bit more civil?" Nicholas responded with a satirical grin. "Didn't see the point."

"Whose children are those? Yours?" He nodded his head toward the door where they still ran in and out as they liked.

"They're not mine and they're mine."

"Then they are the children you spoke of?"

"The ones you did not believe existed. I've not forgotten." He was annoyingly smug in being proved truthful.

Mr. Thornton paused for a moment. "Nor have I. I spoke to you in a way I had no business to. I was in a temper, but that was not your doing. I admit I did not believe you; I could not have taken care of a man such as Boucher's children. But I know now you spoke the truth. I beg your pardon, for doubting your word and for my uncharitable manner to you."

Gone was the satirical look, the smug smirk. He had perplexed the man into silence, and now _Higgins_ only wanted to look at the floor. "Well, Boucher's dead, and I'm sorry. That's the end of it."

"Will you take work with me? That's what I came to ask."

This question brought Higgins's eyes up again. "After all you must think of me, you think we can get along for the sake of these children?"

Mr. Thornton allowed himself a small laugh. "You will note I did not propose we get on well together. There is one comfort, I suppose, that neither of us can think worse of each other than we already do."

"That's true," he said, a hint of a smirk returning. "I'll come, and what's more, I'll thank you. That's a good deal from me."

Struck with a sudden inspiration, Mr. Thornton extended his hand, saying, "And this is a good deal from me." The gesture clearly flummoxed Higgins, but he met him with his own hand, and they shook firmly.

They spoke a few more words on business, but Mr. Thornton was swift to take his leave. He had little time to spare, and the hour he had spent investigating Higgins's claims had been more time than he should have taken. He was rounding the corner when he saw Margaret leaving another house. He wished to overtake her, to see how she would receive him, to find out if she had any explanation to offer him. But he also feared that he would only find evidence of her deceitfulness if he pressed her. There was just one side of himself that could win, however, when so close to her. Against all his jealousy's protestations, his feet took him to her, and he was soon at her side. She visibly started when he spoke her name.

"Miss Hale, you might be interested to know you were premature in expressing your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on." He did not know how he would sound on speaking to her, but in forcing himself to be cool and collected, his tone was rather stern and cold.

She looked at the ground. "I am glad of it." She sounded anything but.

"I understand he told you what I said to him. I confess I did not know it was you who urged him to come to me."

"Yes, he did tell me. But he did not tell you the exact truth –" She stopped short and blushed, and he was quick to interpret her hesitation. She had remembered her own lie.

"The exact truth. Very few people do speak the exact truth. I have given up hoping for it." She still would not meet his eye, and he wanted to shake her, if only to shock her into facing him directly. "Miss Hale, have you nothing to tell me? Do you not think I deserve some part of the truth?"

She did finally look up at him, her eyes brimming with tears once again. Her face had transformed into a look of misery rather than mere discomfort. Her mouth opened and shut as though she wanted to speak, but she said nothing. He leaned in, his eyes begging her to say anything, but his drawing nearer prompted her to drop her eyes again. Her silence was infuriating. He stepped away, the scowl on his face unmistakable.

"You have nothing to say, then. I thought perhaps you would, but I was mistaken. I see we are nothing to each other."

He was about to leave once and for all when she cried, "Nothing!" He halted mid-step. "Nothing to each other?" She did not break out into sobs, but one tear did escape down her cheek as she looked at him with a face full of pleading and anguish. He could not move as he watched her, astounded. Her single tear, the obvious heartache in her words and bearing, and the familiar shine in her eyes captivated him. Never during his turmoil had the conviction of her innocence and devotion felt stronger. She was heart-rendingly sincere. His harsh words had pierced her.

He could not bear her silence, her tears. He let cowardice overtake him and he fled.


	22. The Fall into a Dream

To say that Margaret was distressed would be putting it mildly. She was lost in her sorrow, for he had been before her, asking her to tell him what she had planned to, and she had faltered. Not out of any distrust or continued fear for Frederick, but because he spoke so harshly. His enforced coldness was effective; she felt certain he would be unforgiving once she confessed. His demand for an explanation only sounded cruel, and when he leaned closer to her, she interpreted menace and anger instead of desperation. If he was to be so unforgiving, why should she say anything? Stubbornness overtook her in the wake of his harsh manner, and she felt reasonable for that moment in remaining silent, but then he had pierced her core by saying they were nothing to each other.

She had feared her actions cost her his love, but how could she have lost it so quickly? It had not been even a fortnight since Outwood station, and already he felt nothing for her? His words provoked her to cry out in pain. As justified as he was in thinking the worst of her, could he not see now how much she loved him? Surely he, who had once been able to read her expressions so clearly, could see the truth in her eyes. He had stopped at her outcry, and seemed to truly look at her for the first time. For a moment she thought he had stumbled, but he walked quickly away. She was wrong. He had not seen her.

That evening, she was sitting with her father, still recalling his hurtful words and blaming her silence. But that fleeting moment when his hard eyes had turned to pity gave her hope that his cruelty could not last forever, and she still wished to clear herself before him. She had failed today, but she would not again. No matter his manner, she would not be intimidated into silence any more. It had never been in her nature to retreat, so why had she begun to do so? She would not fall into such a weak practice. She would brave his displeasure and tell him the truth, and she would no longer wait for the chance. She stood, ready to walk out of the drawing room without saying a word to her father. He, curious of her movement, was about to ask where she was going.

Before she could take further steps and before he could say a word, however, the door-bell rang. She heard Dixon answer the door with a low murmur, but heard no answer. Instead, quick footsteps echoed loudly on the stairs as the unannounced visitor approached. She felt her heart clench in the certainty that it was he, and she was proved correct in the blink of an eye. She was struck at once by his flushed cheek and heaving chest, and her father now stood with her in some concern at Mr. Thornton's evident agitation.

But before Mr. Hale could inquire of him what he was about, he said hurriedly, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Hale, but I must request a few minutes alone with Miss Hale. It is a matter of some importance."

His request, made more curious by his impatient state, startled Mr. Hale. He looked to his daughter, who said nothing but became rather pale. Indeed, her chest began to rise and fall in more rapid succession as she looked at Mr. Thornton. She turned slightly to nod at her father, and he, entirely perplexed, said, "Of course, John. I . . ." He was at a loss from this unprecedented behavior and did not bother to finish his sentence, little as he knew what to say. He left the drawing room slowly, looking back and forth between the pair. It appeared they had already forgotten his presence, as their eyes were fixed on each other. He shook his head in bewilderment as he walked down the stairs.

As she heard Mr. Hale's footsteps fade, she felt hypnotized; she could not speak, but only look. Mr. Thornton was gazing intently at her, still greatly affected by something unknown, but at least he no longer looked irate. She could not imagine what he had to say, nor did she think she cared much. Now that he was here, all that mattered to her was that she explained herself. She readied her mind, trying to find the words to begin, but he likewise could not put off what he wished to say.

Before she could comprehend what was happening, he was at her side, taking her hand in that familiar way that choked her breath. "Miss Hale," he said gently. "Margaret." The use of her Christian name caused her heart to leap into her throat. The tender caress in his voice made her hope, and she looked up from where he held her hand to his eyes, eyes that had been full of anger only this afternoon. But now they were filled with desperate penitence. What was happening? "Forgive me, Margaret. Can you forgive me?" He pressed his lips to her hand fervently, and she was astounded. Her heart leapt and bounded within her, even amidst the shock and confusion that he would beg her forgiveness! What had happened? She was so ecstatic and so confounded.

"What have you done that is in need of forgiveness?" she asked incredulously.

"You know what I have done, Margaret," he gripped her hand tight, his face anguished. "I have doubted you. I have been cold to you. I abandoned you." His voice dropped to a whisper.

She was swift to assure him. "What have you done that I did not deserve? You had every reason to think badly of me, to doubt me. It is I who must ask forgiveness of you, I who was wrong."

He shook his head adamantly at her words, and she continued. "It is true! You were not wrong to mistrust me; I was wrong to mistrust you. I lost faith in you for only a moment, but it was the worst moment to doubt. I could and would have told you everything, but I did not. You did not deserve that. I have been regretting my silence ever since that night, even before then." She pressed her free hand to his arm. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

He pulled away from her. "But I do, Margaret. I do. You must know what I was thinking, what I believed."

She dropped her eyes to the floor and nodded. "You thought that I had another lover, that I had lied to you and misled you."

"Yes. How could I believe such a thing?" he asked furiously.

"Very easily!" she exclaimed. "That is why I did not blame you, for I would have thought the same thing!"

"I was so jealous," he admitted quietly.

She stepped closer to him. "I would have been, as well. I understand your feelings. You did not know the truth."

"I should have trusted you. I should not have lost faith."

His despondent vehemence made her heart swell. She had hurt him so much, and yet he blamed himself for his understandable reaction. What could have prompted this turn-around? She must convince him of his innocence. She must heal him of his hurt. "John," she said softly.

It was the first time she had ever spoken his name, and his eyes rose to meet hers in joyful wonder. His name on her lips sounded so secure and cherished. She lifted a hand to his cheek. "You have done nothing wrong. You only felt what was natural to feel. I hurt you and kept the truth from you, and you were right to be angry. I knew what you must think, and I never blamed you for it. I could not. _I_ am sorry for what I did and what I must have put you through. I cannot imagine what pain I would feel in your position, and I am so ashamed that I did that to you." Her eyes watered, but as yet the tears did not threaten to spill over. He saw the familiar moisture appear and pressed his own hand to the one that held his face. "I freely forgive you," she murmured, "even though I don't believe you have done anything to require it. And I beg _your_ forgiveness, for my own doubt, for my secrecy, for giving you pain."

He gazed at her steadily, his eyes going over every inch of her face. It had been too long since he had looked at her so candidly, and he reveled in the mere sight of her. His voice was just as soft and gentle as he said, "I forgive you, Margaret."

Was this reconciliation really going to be so simple? She could see plainly he was not playing her false, but what had happened to make him so understanding? Especially considering she still had said nothing about Frederick. "I want to tell you the truth," she said nervously. "About the man at the station, about why I lied."

His voice stayed quiet. "You do not need to. I have decided to trust you, and I do not want you to break confidences just to appease me."

"It wouldn't be to appease you," she assured him, still marveling at his straight-forward avowal of his trust in her. Her curiosity of his transformation needed to be answered, for she could think of nothing to account for it. "But what makes you trust me so implicitly? You certainly did not a few hours ago."

He held her gaze for a moment before sighing. "I can guess that my behavior makes little sense to you. I am still trying to make sense of it myself."

"Please? Please tell me what changed?"

He nodded, motioning for her to sit on the couch. He sat opposite her and reached for her hands. Such a gesture would have not been surprising two weeks ago, but would have been unthinkable only ten minutes before. Margaret thought she would burst from happiness as he caressed her skin; she had never thought she would experience his touch again, and yet here he was!

"Margaret . . ." he hesitated as he grasped for the right words. "You know how jealous I was, how angry. I didn't say anything, but I'm sure you felt it." She nodded silently. "I had never felt so betrayed, and there was a part of me that was certain you were laughing at me, victorious in your deception of a simple manufacturer. I did not want to believe you were capable of real feeling, not after the way you deceived me. I am ashamed to speak of these thoughts, mistaken as they were, but I was in a torment, not knowing who that man was or why you would do such a thing." Evidence of his past suffering was clear in his face. "And so I let my jealousy rule over me, clouding my reason and rejecting any rational explanation.

"But all the while there was still an unconquerable hope that you were not so evil, that there was something in your defense. As angry as I was, that hope never left me. I did not want to give in to it; I had not been able to explain your behavior in any way, and I felt I must constantly crush that hope. You could not be the woman I loved."

She was brought low as he admitted to such painful and severe judgments. She reminded herself that she would not blame him for his fallen opinion, but that did not make it any easier to hear.

"And then I saw you this afternoon," he smiled ruefully. "You still did not give me reason for your actions, but then you reacted to my last words. I saw I had cut you, and I saw the woman I loved, the one full of feeling, who was as heartbroken as I. I could not face that woman who I was now hurting, so I left. And I wandered . . . I know not where. And as I walked, I finally allowed my anger and jealousy to be overcome by that fighting belief in your goodness. I had not felt so rational in days.

"And I realized something when my mind cleared away the poison. I realized that not only do I love Margaret Hale," her heart soared at his declaration, "I know her." Once more his smile became tender. "I know her strength and her compassion. I know she is honest, even if there is a chance she will offend the listener. I know she is not so duplicitous and cruel as to mislead _any_ man in the way I first thought she misled me. I know the lengths she will go to in order to protect another. She will go out in front of a violent mob and throw herself between them and the man they so despise. She will defend any who deserve more than they are given. As the months have gone by, as I have visited her and talked to her and loved her, I have come to know her.

"And if she will go so far to protect another person in need as to compromise her honesty to a police inspector, there must be reason." His eyes were solemn and intense now and she blushed under their power. "I did not know what the reason was, but it must be something. Something serious enough that you did not confide in me, that you lied to the inspector, that even your father was ready to hurry me out of your house.

"I do not know why you acted as you did, Margaret, but I know you. And if I know you and love you as I ought, I will trust you. I will trust that you are innocent of wrong-doing and that you did not lie about your feelings for me. You would not have another lover. And that is what brought me here, to ask your forgiveness for giving in to my baser instincts at first."

"And I already gave you that forgiveness, so you need not ask for it again." She squeezed his hands gently. She thought she had loved him before, but to hear the account of his personal crucible and the conclusion he had come to humbled her and increased her love a hundred-fold. He was truly a remarkable man and she could not believe she deserved him. Now it was her turn to confess, to hope she could prove her own worthiness.

"You are right that I never lied about my feelings for you, and that there is not another man that I care for. There is only you." He gave her a half-smile. "But I did still lie to you, and you know I lied to the police inspector. No matter my reasons for doing so, they do not make me innocent of wrong-doing, as you say. I am not sinless; I did lie. But you are also right that I did it to protect someone. I did it to protect Frederick. My brother."

She stopped here to let her words sink in. Sure enough, their impact on him was immediate and powerful. Such an idea had never occurred to him, that the man at the station could be her brother. His eyes brightened and the corners of his mouth began to turn up as he took her words in, as he saw her eyes fill with assuring hope and her own smile grew. Haltingly she told him of her brother, the mutiny, and her mother's final request. Her story astounded him. Immediately he understood the danger she had been in, and what had prompted her dishonesty. It would be some time, he knew, until he became a little more accustomed to the knowledge she had imparted, but there was no doubting her word. He looked to her, his smile ready to break through. He had to be sure he had not misheard what was, to him, the most important fact in the case. "He was your brother?"

His happiness and relief were so infectious that it made her eyes well up as she nodded. In an instant, he pulled her close and kissed her with abandon. Her overjoyed tears escaped as his lips melted into hers, a reverent and yet fevered passion expressed in every touch. This was what she had missed the day of his proposal, this happiness that purified their ardor and elevated their passion beyond mere desire; she felt delirious with rapture. She never wanted him to stop, and he seemed similarly inclined, but soon enough they needed a moment to draw breath. And this moment was nearly as delicious to her, as he gifted her with that full smile that expressed such free and honest delight. He seemed on the verge of laughter; his smile was so wide. It made her smile and be bold in a different way entirely.

"For having said you trust me, you seem excessively relieved to learn of my brother's existence," she teased.

He was at first startled that she would joke with him so quickly, but he grinned in response. "Yes, I did decide to trust you. That does not mean I am not grateful to finally know exactly what your relationship to him is. It was hardly easy to be ignorant of his identity."

He spoke lightly enough, but his words reminded her of the suffering she had put him through, and she sobered. "Well, now you know the full story. I was not able to tell you at first; I was constrained by my father. But I have wanted to tell you for days about Fred, and did not know where to find the opportunity."

"I meant what I said, Margaret. I trust you. You did not need to tell me."

"No, I don't want to have secrets like this between us any more. It nearly drove us apart, and I do not want that to happen again. Besides, Fred will be your brother one day, and you should know about him."

Her off-handed comment hit him before it did her, and he dropped her hands in shock. "_My_ brother?" he repeated. Only then did she realize the import of her careless statement and she immediately flushed and began stammering.

"That is . . . I know we are not . . . how could we be after . . . ? I just meant . . . oh, dear." She held her head in her hands, but he detached them quickly, his smile tender and his eyes hopeful.

"Margaret." His whisper of her name recalled to her that moment he had said it during his proposal, and she tingled with pleasure to hear that tone again. "Margaret, do you love me?"

She lifted her adoring eyes to him. "Yes. I do. I love you." His smile broadened with such awe and delight that she wanted to say it again and again just to see that response repeated. "I love you, John Thornton."

Again his lips descended on hers, the joy at her words more powerful than he had ever imagined. Her profession of love only made her kiss sweeter, more fervent and sincere. Would he ever be able to stop kissing her? He had been waiting so long for those words that they could hardly be real. He had come here with no other intention than to ask forgiveness; the course of their conversation was entirely exceeding his expectations. But he was not about to complain, not now he was so close. He broke away from her at last, determined to have the answer he longed for. "If I asked you, you would . . ." he left the question hanging in the air, happy and fearful all at once.

"Yes, I would." Her smile was sweet and tempting. He leaned closer to claim her lips again, but she stopped him with a laugh. "No, I have already allowed you that liberty too much without the words spoken. You must ask me properly before I let you do so again."

He smiled, her playful manner banishing any lingering fear of the answer he would receive. He stroked her hands worshipfully before speaking. "Will you marry me, Margaret?"

She did not answer with words, but smiled impishly before leaning in herself to grant the kiss they both wanted. He read her answer in her touch and wrapped his arms around her. Now she was his in word and deed, and he would hold her close as long as he liked. The only fear now was that they would never part, for she was just as content to remain in his embrace for as long as he would have her.

He reluctantly broke the silence, saying, "I should go to your father."

"We can both go."

"Do you think he has any idea?"

"If he does not now after how long we have been alone here, then I would say there is no hope that he will be expecting this. But he will be happy for us. I'm sure of it. At least one of our parents will be."

He looked down at her, startled. "What do you mean?"

"Come now, John. You must not know your mother, but I can guess her indignant tones as she says, 'That woman!'"


	23. The Dream Realized

Margaret sat down at her dressing table with a sigh. Although the days of harsh winter were past, it was still some time before spring would come in its fullness. The days were lengthening, but the night still fell early. In the dim light of evening, the fire spit and crackled, and the candle on the table flickered and waved, throwing her shadow into sharp relief on the walls. The noise and bustle of the day was gone, and she sat in peaceful solitude and reflection as she began to take the pins from her hair.

The time had once been that Dixon would help her out of her gown and undo her hair, but those days were no more. Margaret did not care for the help at night, however much she required aid in the morning. But Dixon would not help her then, either. That duty would fall to Martha, who now acted as Margaret's maid. What a strange feeling it was, to now have someone in her employ whose only task was to look after her! She felt rather like her mother, or even Edith, but not herself. But Mrs. Thornton had insisted on just such a luxury, for it would not do for John's wife to live as though she had nothing.

She still laughed at the memory of her father's shock of two months ago, when she and John had entered his study and asked for his blessing. Her mother had been right when she said that Mr. Hale still perceived Margaret as a little girl, for he had not had any suspicion of what kept them ensconced alone for so long in the drawing room. But he had rallied quickly, pleased and delighted at the prospect of having John for a son-in-law. Indeed, the thought had done much to strengthen his feeble health and weak spirits, and his moderate recovery from his wife's passing was that much greater, with such a joyful event on the horizon.

He had been surprised again when both Margaret and John pressed for a short engagement. Could it really be proper to be wed so soon after her mother had been buried? They both gave evidence of their long-standing affection and argued their case well, but what finally convinced him to relent was Margaret's relating her mother's counsel and blessing. Mr. Hale was not inclined to go against his beloved wife's wishes, so that battle was easily won.

Mrs. Thornton was more difficult and formidable a foe to Margaret's mind, so it was Margaret now who was surprised when John informed her of his mother's assent to a speedy wedding. What confused her most was his asking permission to tell Mrs. Thornton about Frederick, for she could not see what that had to do with their hopes. But as Mrs. Thornton would be family, Margaret had no objections to John's request, and he returned the next day to say that Mrs. Thornton heartily approved. Margaret could not stop from raising her eyebrows at him skeptically, and he was forced to admit that perhaps "heartily" was a misleading description. It was not until later that Margaret would learn Mrs. Thornton's assent was so easily obtained because of that worthy lady's guilt over calling her a "tart".

So it was that a month later, they were married. The affair was not so simple as Margaret had once dreamed. Mrs. Thornton had carried the day in some respects, for Mr. Thornton was one of the foremost men of Milton, and some ceremony must be stood upon for the occasion. But he did his best to temper her demands, and though Margaret was not able to walk to the church through the shade of trees as she once imagined, the carriage ride through a light snowfall had been enough, as it took her to him. She had to withstand a wedding breakfast, but it was a small and private affair, and he was wise enough to do away with many of the formalities the people of Milton had expected. He was also quick to usher out their few guests almost immediately after the meal was over so she would not be suffocated by the congratulations of strangers. The rest of the day had been their own, which was all they required.

The last pin removed, her thick hair fell past her shoulders in a dark cascade. She breathed in relief as she massaged her scalp, letting the weariness of the day pass by.

If it was possible, she walked even more now that she was married. She and John had returned to daily life almost immediately after the wedding, and settled quickly into new habits and routines. Margaret's habits now included a daily excursion to Crampton to visit her father, who refused to be moved from his wife's final home. Dixon, surprisingly, was just as staunch in remaining. Perhaps she had never forgiven Mr. Hale completely for bringing her beloved mistress so low, but she was fiercely loyal to Mrs. Hale's memory, and vowed to look after the poor widower as long as she was required. Alas, the surge in Mr. Hale's energy was not to last, and both Dixon and Margaret sadly suspected that Dixon would remove to Marlborough Mills before many more months would pass.

Margaret stood from the table to retrieve her dressing gown from the bed, wrapping it securely around her before returning to the chair.

Her visit to her father this morning was not long, as Mr. Hale expected pupils, and she made the most of her free time to detour through the familiar park she had frequented so often before. The path meandered beyond the town limits and as she walked, the chilly fog of the morning was dissipating, leaving a hint of a golden glow that promised of spring. She made a note to herself to bring John here once the weather turned warm so he could find some pleasure in the sight. She hoped he could be persuaded to leave his perch from the office she passed every day.

She knew he watched for her. Before she left each morning, she would visit him to say farewell, but she only rarely stopped in once she came back. She had noticed, however, that before a week passed after their wedding, his desk had been turned so he faced the window, looking for her return each day. And so she would stop in the yard, waiting patiently until he glanced up, heedless of the workers who walked by her. And he would look up and see her, and give her that soft smile that was only hers. It was nearly as good as a kiss. But not quite. At least it was enough until they would see each other again.

What she did not notice was how many of the workers waited and watched for this ritual. While she saw only him, she did not see the knowing smiles they hid into their hands as they wondered and watched the master and his bride. The work was as hard as ever, and he was just as exacting a master as before, but there was no question of the change in him, in the kinder manner he spoke to them or the more patient way he explained his demands and expectations. The joke was common among them that it was a pity he had not married long before. But then, they supposed, he would not have married Miss Margaret if he had done so. And if anyone _did_ heartily approve the match, it was the workers.

None more so than Nicholas Higgins. He was smugly gratified to learn that his suspicions regarding John and Margaret were correct, and he did not hesitate to say so when she told him of their engagement.

"Now there," he said significantly to her shy recitation, "there's no need to be miss-ish. I've had a thought or two about you and Thornton since you first asked me to speak direct to him. I could only figure that for a woman to speak for a man such as Thornton, she must be blind or mad in love. There was no accounting for it otherwise."

His merry response to her news made her smile and quip, "And so he still plays the overbearing master to you, Nicholas? You have not worked for him long, but is he as bad as you thought?"

He had the sense to look a little abashed. "Well, now, Miss, I could never say against a man as took your heart. But I'll give you this much, he is not such a brute as I first made him out."

She laughed. "Take care, Nicholas. It will not be too long before you think rather well of him, and then what will the union say?"

The association between her husband and Nicholas had only improved since her marriage, until the men had formed what could almost be called a friendship, as much friendship as any master could have with a zealous union man. From the accounts of both men, she understood that their dealings with each other were first borne out of astonished curiosity, and she laughed when separately told by both of how much the other man was a puzzle.

"That Higgins is a strange kind of chap," John had said. "But I would dearly enjoy setting him on the masters who persist in thinking their hands have nothing but fluff for brains. He'd give them what-for, and they would be left in a muddle for days trying to recover."

They had clearly found some common ground, for neither pretended to appear as something they were not, and they both admired this quality in each other, however much such a quality lent itself to their frequent arguments. But much to Margaret's joy and relief, they had recognized enough in each other to see more than just master and worker, and this drew them back together not long after tempers had cooled.

Nicholas had drawn her aside in the early days of her marriage, saying, "I must beg your pardon, Miss, for thinking you were mad or blind to be marrying master. It took some doing, but I know you were not looking to marry the master, but Thornton himself."

She raised her eyebrows in a satisfied smirk. "What is this, Nicholas? Not thinking so badly about a master?"

He shuffled his feet in gruff embarrassment. "Don't you go around rubbing I-told-you-so's in my face, Miss; I am low enough for all that. To tell the truth, he still fairly bamboozles me. He's two chaps. One chap I knew of old was master all over. The other chap hasn't an ounce of master's flesh about him. How them two chaps is bound up in one body, is a craddy for me to find out. But I suppose it's that second chap you married, and I bless you for it."

Margaret had smiled at Nicholas's description of John, knowing how it mirrored her previous opinion. She was grateful, however, that some understanding was being bridged between Nicholas and John, and subsequently between John and the rest of his workers. For Nicholas would not hear an unfair word spoken against the master, and John was coming to see his workers as real men.

Margaret at first thought that John made such efforts with Nicholas for her sake, but she soon suspected that her influence had little to do with it, as much as he seemed to enjoy the experience of mingling with a different kind of man. It was John, after all, who offered to accompany her to the Higginses' home to see after the Boucher children, with no hint from her. He took a rather pointed interest in the children's education and voluntarily offered his help to get them into decent schools.

Her hand stole questioningly to her stomach. She could not say how happy it made her to see John with the Boucher children, to see how he enjoyed being with them and the care he took with them. Such behavior could only bode well for their future. They had discussed their own family and children rarely, but why should she fool herself? They had been married a month, after all, and though it was far too early to know if she carried John's child, the possibility was very likely. The thought both frightened and thrilled her, and then made her blush; she and John had not neglected their connubial activities.

She was surprised by how happy she was in fulfilling her "wifely duties". To be sure, she was absolutely ignorant of relations between husband and wife before her marriage, but the few cryptic words Mrs. Thornton had offered on her wedding day gave Margaret to think such relations would be only compulsory for her. It was the first time she felt nervous about being John's wife.

And then the night came and they were alone, and his impassioned eyes fell on her in a way that made her skin tingle. His soft, hesitant touch helped assure her of his own insecurity, and his lips brushed across her skin so lightly she could hardly concentrate on anything but trying to feel them. It had almost taken her by surprise when she was completely laid bare, so consumed had she been by his mouth and adoring whispers. But then she stood before him and he looked at her with naked desire, only a small step away from total lust. A brief terror seized her and made her want to hide, but he took her face gently in his hands and whispered reverently, "You are so beautiful, Margaret." Her fears were done away in his tender caress.

What followed was shy, hesitant, and curious discovery, as kiss compounded kiss, and touch begat touch. Their breath mingled with surprise and longing as they explored each other. What forced duty was this? she wondered to herself as she basked in the sight of him. There was awkwardness, there was discomfort and even a little pain, but there was also pleasure, holiness, and joy. Now Margaret understood all that was meant by the words read that morning in the service, that husband and wife should cleave to each other and be one flesh.

Despite the initial awkwardness of her wedding night, she found herself hoping for his touch again, and was more than pleased to find he had no intention of going directly to sleep the next night, or the next. And as they came together each night, she was learning more and more of the delights of her marriage bed. In fact, it seemed the whole household knew of Margaret's happy education.

"It's positively indecent, that's what," she overheard a servant mutter to another one morning, "positively indecent for a woman to . . . enjoy her husband so much."

She did not hear the reply, so thrown was she by the disapproving words, and doubted herself the rest of the day. But when John reached for her that night, she quickly forgot the condemnation. She was his wife, and he her husband; what sin was there in this? Soon enough, she found it easy to ignore the barb she had overheard. At least she had been spared Fanny's impertinent wit; Mrs. Thornton had the presence of mind to send her to stay with family friends out by Hayleigh, so Margaret would not hear any of her mortifying remarks.

As for Mrs. Thornton herself, Margaret was still in a quandary. Some headway had been made in thawing her icy exterior, but Margaret was unsure if she would ever be able to fully pierce Mrs. Thornton's armor. And then there was the question of what to call her! She readily called Margaret by her first name, and Margaret felt more than a little silly continuing to call her Mrs. Thornton, especially since the title now applied to her, as well. But she did not know if she dared call that stern woman Hannah. What a different specimen she seemed from her own affectionate mother.

Margaret took up her comb, quickly finding the rough tangles as she thought once more of her departed mother. She hoped that Mrs. Hale would be happy with Margaret's choice, that she was now the wife of the man she loved, for whom she now waited. A memory surfaced in her mind, and she smiled softly as she began humming the waltz from the music box that was now hers.

The door opened behind her, and John stepped quickly and silently inside. His own weariness was manifest in the crease of his brow, but on seeing her still awake and looking at him through the mirror, he walked to her with a smile.

"May I?" he spoke so low his voice was nearly a rumbling echo, and she relinquished the comb gladly. This was a ritual only begun in the last few evenings, but she relished his comforting touch as he slowly drew the comb through her hair. Her savor was dampened by seeing his brow still furrowed, and she regretted that he had so much to trouble him regarding the mill. She was learning how to smooth out his brow, but she had yet to learn of how to ease all his troubles. She had faith, though, that one day that knowledge would come and they would labor together, their hearts and minds truly as one.

She was so intent on examining his face, she did not notice his hands had stopped moving over her hair. He was now looking at her with a curious expression, and she realized she had been caught staring. Even in the low light, he could see her blush, and his smile deepened at her reaction. He laid the comb down on the table and reached for her hands, pulling her up to him. She was so beautiful and alluring, his humor gave way quickly to a single desire.

She saw his eyes glisten with mischief and then darken with want, and as he drew her close, she whispered, "John." His mouth covered hers completely, and her mind allowed her only one coherent thought before the instinctive haze of love and passion overtook her.

Thank heaven! this was no dream.

* * *

**A/N: **That's all, folks! I would end it here without making any closing remarks, but I wanted to say a couple things. First, to reiterate that I am not great at writing couples once they're officially together, so while I'm really flattered that so many of you were looking forward to more story, I just don't trust myself to write anything decent post-proposal. One day I might try my hand at it, because I've read many post-proposal stories that are wayyyy too sappy and I'd like to see if I can manage our dear happy couple without making them sound like completely different people. I did feel I owed it to this story to write an epilogue of sorts, so you should be glad I even did this much. I hope it will suffice.

Second, here's the thing: I finished writing this story a little while ago, and I really didn't question the direction I took it as I was writing and subsequently editing it. But around the time I was posting chapters 17 and 18, I wanted to create an alternate ending for my already-alternate story. I still really like how I've ended this one, and I hope you do, too, but I've been thinking that with Margaret and John being soooooo close to sealing the deal around those chapters, it would have made sense for her to find a way to tell him about Frederick beforehand (and judging from your reviews, many of you agree). Basically, a whole lot less angst. So this is what I'm going to do. I will be posting a new ending for this as a separate story, and it will begin skewing from chapter 18. Once I post it, I'll create an author's note directing people back to this story because I don't want to post the first 17 chapters again. So for those of you who were frustrated that John didn't know about Frederick before the train station, you just may like my alternate ending better. Or maybe you'll like them the same amount! That would be fabulous!

Thank you so much for all of your kind words and reviews. It's been an eye-opening experience to write this story and get such encouraging feedback, and I've really enjoyed meeting you! See you all on the flip-side! -drops mic and walks away-


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